#August Rain after Haying
memoryslandscape · 2 months ago
The grass resolves to grow again, receiving the rain to that end, but my disordered soul thirsts after something it cannot name.
Jane Kenyon, from “August Rain, after Haying,” Constance (Graywolf Press, 1993)
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studionovella · a year ago
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@snowy-bones inspired me to draw this cranky old man again after a long hiatus from my secret AU project, Americantale.  Their boy Beau done did it, y’all.  Go on over and say hello...ya won’t regret it.
(language, substance abuse, suggestive themes warning for content below break)
Relentless heat waves, over 100-degree Fahrenheit high temps for weeks.
Endless drought, dried up arroyos and acequitas.
Brush fires, dead grass, dust storms.
Flystrike on the cattle and fowlpox wasting the chickens.
If there was a Hell, it poured forth from the depths beneath Loving County, Texas and blew across the Sierras like it was bringing the End of Days. 
Sans swore it would be a mere matter of months before everything from Mentone to Pecos would be reduced to a desolate, impossible wasteland.  All the magic on Earth couldn’t keep encroaching swaths of pale, powder fine sands at bay along the western fence line, his powers steadily waning over decades from stress, strife and a weakened, nearly hopeless soul.  The expanding Chihuahuan Desert was slowly eating at his ranchland, bit by bit, day by day, like the insidious viral sickness scabbing up the pullets.
Degradation and desertification of the land was a long time coming.  Hundreds of years ago, overgrazing by cattle and clearing for oil fields had destroyed the tallgrass prairie that once acted as a natural barrier against the desert, leaving behind hardy shrubs like creosote, mariola and honey mesquite.  But over the last ten years, the whole planet was heating up to levels beyond that which allowed any native plant life to thrive in delicate arid climes.  Combined with the chronic lack of already sparse rains, even flowering cacti were starting to disappear.  Last May, none of the claret cups and hardly any cane chollas bloomed.  No flowers meant no tourists.  A few businesses closed.  The single motel in Orla now stood abandoned.
Talk on KCRS 550 AM was mostly about how low the Red Bluff Reservoir had gotten, to the point where Sans just left the radio in his ancient F-350 truck turned off most days.  He didn’t care for music on the FM stations anymore - some songs made dark, heavy things stir up inside his soul.  Once a week he’d listen for updated beef auction prices out of necessity, but the moment music came on his knucklebone would punch the dial to silence the offensive racket, sometimes a little too hard, leaving an ever-widening crack in the plastic.
If the reservoir dried up, everyone and everything would go under.  For good.
Mid-August came worse than the rest.  Hotter, drier, windier.  The wind in particular was so harsh.  Fierce and howling like a demon, day and night, relentless for nearly a week.  Windows rattled, that cursed dust kicked up in a high, thick brown haze that nearly blocked out the sun.  It coated everything, animals and shed roofs and vehicles all uniformly discolored and dirtied.  
For two days Sans stayed inside his rundown home, holed up from the wind with his little white dog, Toby, getting a little too drunk off whiskey.  Good thing Toby didn’t mind how much Sans passed out on the threadbare green sofa, content to curl up in his caretaker’s lap for hours long naps.  By the evening of the second day boredom and restlessness, mixed with a little worry, inspired Sans to check up on the ranch hands.  
Several cows had died, all young ones.  Dehydration and bleeding, infected fly bite sores had proved too much.  It was impossible for the hands to keep the herd away from ponds and ditches due to the heat - all the cows wanted to do was wallow in an attempt to cool off.  But that’s where they kept picking up the flies.
“We need a new vet out here, boss,” said foreman Arturo over the phone, with his usual matter-of-fact tone that crackled through the poor connection.  “And pest control.”
“how’s th’ hay comin’ along,” Sans muttered in low baritone, but he knew this deflection tactic wouldn’t work.
“Finished hayin’ yesterday.  Ya gonna call a new vet or what?  The young'uns are droppin’ like, uh, flies.  Most of the hens are dead now too.”
The last vet hired on ended up being a filthy bigoted racist.  The second he found out Sans and some of his crew were monsterfolk, the guy bailed last minute.  That was six months ago, and before that, the only veterinarian in Loving had died - a crotchety old timer who’d never really warmed up to Sans despite working with him for over thirty years.  But fall calving was coming up soon.  They couldn’t afford to not have a doc around for that critical time and Sans knew it.
“yeah, got it Arturo.”
“And we need to talk ‘bout the brush on the north side - ”
“not now.  later.  ah’ll let ya know ‘bout the vet afore sundown.”
Sans tapped the cracked phone screen to hang up and, true to his word, looked up veterinarians within a hundred mile radius.  There were only three results, all out of Pecos.  With a shrug and heavy sigh he poked the first number on the list.
A disconnected number tone.
He grumbled and tapped the next number…
It rang and rang, never going to voicemail.
Now for the third and final number. The description beneath the ten digits read: Loving Hearts Veterinary Services, LLC.  Pecos, TX 79772.   24/7 on-call care for small and large animals.  Serving Reeves, Ward and Loving Counties.
maybe third time’s a charm…
It rang once, twice - 
“Loving Hearts vet, how can I help your animals today?”
Sans was taken aback for a split second - he hadn’t expected the call to be answered by a sweet, soft voice, completely lacking in the local drawl.  
must be from someplace North and East...
“heh, yeah, uh…”
the hell’s wrong with ya, Sans?
“Sorry, do you have the wrong number?”
“no!  ah mean, nah, uh, run a ranch off Road 300, north a Mentone.  got a few problems that need takin’ care of.  d’ya come out this far?”
“I sure do!  What’s the story?”
“shit.  where do ah even start?  flystrike, heifer birthin’ troubles fer two seasons, pullets got some sorta infection...”
“Oh, the flies are really bad this year.  When would you like me to come out?”
A brief pause.  Sans felt tense and hesitant, but he had to be upfront before he made this girl drive all the way out from Pecos just to turn him down the minute she laid eyes on him.  He wasn’t about to make the same mistake twice.
“look, ah gotta tell it to ya straight...imma monsterfolk.  an’ ah gotta few workin’ fer me.”
The veterinarian didn’t even skip a beat.
“Sir, I am absolutely fine with that.  You don’t need to worry about me.  I’ll be more than happy to work with you.”
well damn.  still got a little luck left after all.
“how soon can ya git here?”
“I’ll be there ASAP!  This is my cell phone number, so just text me the GPS coordinates when you can and I’ll head on up, ok?  I look forward to meeting you in person, mister - oh, I’m so sorry, I never got your name!”
“Sans.  Sans Snowdin.  but most jus’ call me Bones.”
“Well mister Snowdin, see you soon!”
“yeah, seeya.”
For a split second he’d almost said “see ya, sugar” but just barely managed to stop himself before that last regrettable word slipped out.  The distant tingling in his soul, however?  There was nothing he could do to stop that, now matter how much it pissed him off.
that’s the last thing ah need.
There was nothing for it but to drown out the thoughts and feelings, like usual.  He ambled over to the kitchen, stiff and slow, the worn state of his joints really starting to show.  In an upper cabinet with no door, each shelf was lined with liquor bottles, some made by humans, some made by monsters, some a blending of the two.  Sans took down a half-empty bottle of plain old black label Jack, unscrewed the lid, parted his big teeth and took a long draw, the amber liquor dissolving into nothingness inside his mouth as it was absorbed by his soul.  A few drops missed their mark and escaped to dribble down his bone chin, drip onto the grungy, holey white tee he wore.
Long ago, he might’ve cleaned up a bit for someone coming over, but that was then.  Frankly, these days Sans couldn't give less of a damn what anyone thought of him.
He set the bottle down and grabbed a small white ceramic jar from the counter next to the refrigerator, popped the hinged lid, dipped his thumb and index inside and pinched.  A fine, luminescent yellowish powder coated his rough, grayish distals.  He brought them up to his nasal vestibule, tipped his skull back, cupped his other hand over and snorted hard, inhaling the powder.  His sockets closed as the drug immediately started working its magic, bones and joints relaxing, pain slowly numbing.  For a long moment he just stood there, skull still back and sockets shut tight, until a full body shudder snapped him out of it and he swigged some more whiskey as a chaser.  For good measure he wiped his distals and face off with his shirt before taking a seat on the sofa, bottle in tow, waiting for the veterinarian to arrive.
“Toby,” he called softly, and his faithful dog trotted out from the bedroom, jumped right up into Sans’ lap.  With a small laugh Sans scratched his distals through Toby’s soft white fur affectionately.  “good boy.”
Another swig.  The whiskey was already almost drained.
A gust of wind blew dust across the windows, against the front door, howled and whined as if demanding to be let into the house.
Sans looked over at the nearest window and watched streaking dust patterns shift against the rattling glass panes for a long while, then glanced down to his lap -
Toby was gone.
Silence, save the angry wind.
He got up from the sofa, vibrant green eyelights scanning the kitchen, the hall, but the little dog was nowhere to be seen.
Thud thud thud
A knock at the front door.
Shaking his skull in confusion Sans went to answer it - vet’s here already? that was awfully quick.  He unlocked the deadbolt and turned the knob.
It wasn’t the veterinarian knocking.
There on the top step of the porch stood a tall skeleton monster with hollow black sockets narrowed in pained worry, a big tattered red bandana tied around his neck, dressed in buffalo check and faded denim and those familiar old Ariat boots that Sans had burned down to ashes on a bonfire years ago.
“P - Papyrus?!”
The dust storm was picking up, buffeting Papyrus with tan sand and brown grit that clung to his clothes.
Sans tried to go to his brother, willing impossibly heavy leg bones and paralyzed feet to move past the doorway with every scrap of his being, but he was stuck fast, frozen.  Forced to watch in profound horror with wide lightless sockets as the fierce winds started to blow through Papyrus, cutting sharp fissures into his skull, bone slowly dissolving into shimmering white powder that swirled away with the dust of the desert.  Sans opened his mouth to scream but nothing came out, voice replaced by the wailing of the demonic wind that was destroying the only person he ever truly loved.
Thud thud thud thud thud
Sans bolted upright, the empty Jack bottle landing on the worn wood floor with a heavy thunk.  A thin sheen of shimmering translucent sweat glistened on his skull.  Neon green and gold flared in his left socket but died down within seconds as realization quickly brought him back to reality.
“Hello?” came a muffled female voice from beyond the front door.  “It’s the vet!  Is mister Snowdin there?”
Toby quietly boofed a few times, standing at attention near the grimy linoleum tiled entryway, tail curled up and wagging apprehensively.
“comin’,“ Sans called out gruffly, easing up off the sofa with some effort, bones feeling like they were made of solid lead.  He made no hurry to answer the door but when he did, a tinge of guilt crept up his vertebrae - the girl was covered head to boot in dust from waiting in the merciless wind for so long, hair a tousled mess despite being pulled back into a ponytail, dark blue scrubs coated with brown grit.
Hunched over with her hands raised in a vain attempt to shield her face and eyes from the storm she ducked inside and Sans quickly shut the door, lest more dirt blow in.  She straightened and ran fingertips through her scalp, shook out a bit of the dust, and turned to face him.
His eyelights contracted, teeth clenched, jawbone set.
she’s pretty.
“Whew!  That wind is crazy!  It’s not nearly as bad down in Pecos!”
She held out her hand and introduced herself proper, full name and title, with a big bright smile and without a bit of hesitation.  Sans obliged and shook hands, feeling a few calluses on her warm palm.
“It’s nice to meet you, mister Snowdin.”
“jus’ Sans’ll do.”
“And who is this handsome boy?”  She stooped down to greet the adorable little white dog excitedly rearing up at her feet.
“Toby,” Sans grumbled lowly, watching with a mix of irritation and tightly suppressed fondness as his dog instantly warmed up to the vet’s affectionate voice.
“Hi, Toby!  You’re so cute!  Who’s a good boy, huh?  You are!  Yes!”  She ruffled Toby’s neck and ears with a giggle.  The mutt ate the attention right up, really playing on the cuteness card and putting on a show by rolling over for a belly rub.
With his sharp, inhuman sense of smell Sans noticed the vet faintly radiated a scent like warm sagebrush and something sweetly floral, akin to honeysuckle.  It was seeping through the layers of fabric she wore and he instinctively focused on it over the earthy smell of dust clinging to her clothing.  This mix of scents wasn’t from any kind of perfume or soap.  It was the natural essence of her, coming from her skin. 
Humans all had unique scent markers; they could reveal quite a bit about a person's nature or intentions.  Like most monsters, Sans could literally smell fear, dishonesty, aggression - all through the pheromones human bodies constantly released.  Combined with an ability to feel the emotional resonance of souls, being far more in tune with that sympathetic and empathetic magic, monsters could pick apart a human’s modus operandi quite easily. 
This human, however, seemed to be an open book, sending out an aura of something Sans could only describe as comfort in his mind.  His soul fluttered weakly in response and the unexpected sensation caught him off guard.
“So, should we get down to it?”
Magic prickled his sternum and his eyelights went completely dark.
“wuh…?” was the only dumb thing he managed to get out of his slackjawed mouth.
“Um, would you like to go through the numbers with me?  If my fees seem reasonable, maybe you or one of your crew could show me the animals, then we’ll go from there?”
“oh sure, uh - “ he gestured to the small black Formica kitchen table and followed behind as she took a seat.  “can ah git ya somethin’ ta drink?”
“Water would be amazing. I think that wind sucked the hydration right out of me!”
Sans did not appreciate the raunchy scenes that suddenly and briefly flashed in his mind about sucking moisture out of this girl.
“where ya from?” he asked, took down a tall glass and filled it at the five gallon water jug on its stand by the sink.  He hated small talk but was a little desperate for any distraction that would shut his imagination up.
“Oh!  I was born in Ohio, but grew up in southern Illinois.  Then I went to college at Purdue, that’s in Indiana.”
Keeping his eyelights trained on the glass, Sans set it before her and took his seat across the table, refusing to make eye contact as he spoke.
“how’d ya end up way th’ hell out here?”
She took a deep drink of the water and sighed in relief, but hesitated a bit before answering.
“Let’s just say...I made some dumb decisions.  I guess what they say about following your heart doesn’t always turn out so well.”
That smoldering magic sting rose up his sternum stronger than before, but this time it was driven by a sudden possessiveness and anger at whoever had abandoned this sweet girl in a rough, podunk one-horse town like Pecos.  It was a man, a lover that she’d moved out here for, he imagined, some young human punk with good looks and a silver tongue.  And now she was stuck here in Hell along with all the other poor domed souls chained to this forsaken desert, trying to scrape by as best she could.
He narrowed his sockets at her chest, just behind the water glass, focused his vision beyond the physical realm and caught a glimpse of bright emerald green glow.
‘course.  too damn nice fer her own good.
“So I have a pricing sheet here,” she took a black satchel from her shoulder, unzipped it and withdrew a paper printed with basic services.  Sans reached out and slid it to him, glanced over the info, but didn’t bother with actually analyzing the prices. He was going to hire her then and there even if she was the most expensive veterinarian in all of Texas.
“looks fine, doc. when th’ wind dies down ah’ll take ya out ta the coops first.  chickens got some sorta scabbin’ disease, heard from mah foreman Arturo it’s prob’ly fowlpox.”
“That’s a likely diagnosis.  Avipoxvirus is pretty common.  It’s been too dry for much mosquito activity this year, which is how poultry usually contract it, so they may be breathing in the virus from all the dust blowing around.  Unfortunately if it’s that kind of transmission, there might not be much I can do to save your flock.  It closes up their throats and they stop eating or drinking.”
Sans nodded his skull slowly, arms crossed, staring down at the scratched up black tabletop.
“only had ‘em fer ‘bout a year.  thought ah’d make a little side money on poultry since they’re s’posed ta be easy, but…” he ran a bony palm down his face and huffed in defeat.  “that’s jus’ more cash gone down th’ drain.”
“I’m so sorry.  It’s a tough disease to handle.  I wish I could do more for you, and for them.  Were they ever vaccinated?”
“nah, me ‘n Arturo know cows more’n chickens, so none a us thought ‘bout nothin’ like that.”
“Well if you ever want to try again, I’ll make sure your new birds get what they need to stay healthy.”
“hm.  we’ll see.”
He dared to flick his irises up to her face and damn it all to hell if this girl wasn’t just made of pure honey when she smiled so sweetly like that at him, full of tender care and genuine compassion, gentle eyes sparkling bright in the hazy dim sunlight filtering through dusty blinds.  She broke their mutual gaze first, took another drink of water and glanced sidelong at the window.
That’s when Sans noticed the warm tone subtly blooming on her cheeks.
ah shit, don’t blush like that fer me, darlin’.
ya got no idea…
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the-daiz · a year ago
Affectionate | Razor
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Genre: fluff
Pairing: platonic! Razor x reader
Warning(s): touchy friendship?
Side note: I got this idea when I read Razor's character story (2), and GOD I love this boy so much, I just want to give him a hug</3
Posted on: 07/ August/ 2021
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"It's raining..." You muttered. You hulted to a stop and directed your gaze to the grey and gloomy sky. Razor hummed in response, spreading his hand out to feel the cold droplets of water splash into his palm.
After a few moments of admiring the miracles of nature, Razor got ahold of your hand. You were startled by his instinctive action but you didn't pull away nonetheless. He proceeded to lead you under a hollow tree, pulling you down to rest under its protection.
"We wait for rain to stop." He spoke, hugging his knees to his chest in search of warmth. You peered out from your make shift shelter, furrowing your brows slightly as you studied the thick clouds.
"I think the rain might last a bit long, the whole night probably." You glanced back at your hooded friend, his expression stern and unreadable as always. He kept silent for a second, as if to think.
"Then we sleep." He suggested. You nodded in agreement and sat back next to Razor, trying to make yourself as comfortable as can be, it was going to be a long night after all. Said boy unfolded himself and began gathering a few leaves and grass that were scattered in the sheltered area.
"...what are you doing?"You tilted your head at him. He pushed the leaves and grass together and laid it on the ground before turning to you.
"I make bed to rest on." He stated, his eyes shimering at you. You chuckled quietly, ruffling his hair in response.
Razor huddled on the mess of hay and gestured for you to join him. You weren't in anyway familiar with his wolf-like life style, but you didn't mind participating in its traditions if it meant it would make Razor happy.
You rested next to him, hesitantly laying on the bed of grass. It wasn't as comfortable as your usual bed, but you didn't mind.
After you had shuffled into a comfortable position, Razor wrapped his arms around you, nuzzling his face into the collar of your neck. You were taken aback by his sudden movement. You figured that it was natural for him to be physically affectionate with people he loved, but you weren't quite used to being this touchy with your friends.
"what is the matter?" He asked upon feeling your body tense up.
"oh, it's nothing..." You slowly returned the gesture, pulling him closer to your form. You could feel his body relax in your embrace. Razor let out a soft exhale, before closing his eyes and drifting off to dream land, the gentle splattering of rain and soft howling of wind serving as a lullaby.
You gently smiled at him, oh how adorable he was. You made a mental note to cook him some meat next time you visited wolvendom.
"goodnight, Razor" you whispered.
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the-deeds-to-shibden · 16 days ago
Monday 3 August 1840
[Anne misdated this entry as Monday 2 August]
[up at] 4 1/2
[to bed at] 10 1/4
had slept well – very rainy morning – took off pelisse and with a wet towel (with water out of my wicker covered bottle) made face and neck and arms comfortable – fed my horse with bread he would not eat yesterday and sat watching him and the weather (the rain) – fresh round cake gūālĕe (in Russian crōōglĕe) and plenty of milk for us both and breakfast over at 6 3/4 – kelossan ne chorosho – would not give the servants anything – one abasse = ./20 silver quite enough said Adam for the hay last night and this morning for the 9 horses; and 2 abasses quite enough (ōtchen davolna) for all the bread milk and eggs and a little wine (gave the remainder this morning to the servants) we had had of the kazāina (woman of the house – kelossan’s wife) – gave her ./50 silver for which she kissed my hand bowed low and seemed very thankful – the lower the bow, the greater the respect and in this case satisfaction – the rain was much abated – almost abated but put on Ann her burca 1st time and I my mackintosh over my other (light black shalloon of tammy) cloak as usual – and off from Drŏnōrĭsă at 8 1/4 – quite fair in about 1/2 hour or less and threw off my mackintosh – apparently 1 20/.. hour before we get back into the direct road to Koutaïs – all the way thro’ thick young wood, and bad steep ascent till after 10 and the steep bad narrow track till at 11 5/.. wood unparapetted narrow bridge over Lekhidārĭ little thick red rapid enough stream – very hot and humid – gave up raining about 8 3/4 – Sun and hot now at 11 10/.. standing on the little narrow wood bridge – very steep narrow lane winding and bad ascent up immediately from the bridge thro’ wood up on to the little plateau or assisse or terrace of hill above – about 1/2 way up the white baggage horse tumbles down and from 11 25/.. to 12 getting her up etc. divided the baggage – left the horse and the Jew with her, and went up 1/2 hour farther to opener part and larger plateau of the hill side and there halted at 12 1/2 to give the horses time to pasture (Adam said there was neither hay nor barley at the next village Ojōla) and in fact to rest poor Adam tired and en nage and to give the jew time to get up to us which he he /Anne’s repetition/ did and brought the horse – afterwards obliged to leave it by the way and agreed with a peasant to take it to Koutaïs for 4 abasses – no joke being without him for Adam has no sinecure of it when all to drive – 
I ate ripe good blackberries – centaury scattered on the hill – the little low pretty pink flower just like the herb for drying for antiscorbutic tea for Marian I remember  to have gathered aetatis 12 on the wolds above Market Weighton – while I gathered blackberries my horse lay down rather spoilt the top of my wicker covered Swiss guide’s bottle and lost the Baku Shekmareff cork – sought it in vain – lay down on my burca etc. on the grass under the tree (oak?) and slept instead of writing till now 2 10/.. – our route this morning and all around a labyrinth of thickly wooded comby valleys   off again at 2 40/.. – crossed the Lekhĭdārĭ again at 3 50/.. – about 5 both our baggage horses dead tired left George to take care of the baggage with Jew and guide, and Ann and I and the Cossack rode forwards to the village, and Adam came with us on foot – has walked all the way today – the Cossack rides the little chestnut botcha horse – lucky the village (Ojōla) not far – arrived at 5 25/.. – very picturesque very scattered – hardly visible even at a little distance – the houses (farmsteads) hid in trees – rode up to the picturesque place of the kelossan – good people – Ann and I settled at once in the Ōtăch (gallery) of a little store house or what? our otach about 12 x 8 feet – and we were very comfortable – luckily the baggage horses arrived just as we were sending off Ann’s horse and the Cossack’s to meet them – no horses here – all soon arranged – and I bought 2 nice chickens etc. of the kelossan, and ordered bread and milk and eggs and the chickens to be done à la Georgienne with kindzi –
2 chickens and about 1 gill new milk             0.15
1 batman cucurus (no barley here)                0.25
bread eggs wine etc. gave additional      .      0.10
1 pōōree such as we had at Abana worth says Adam (Tchōōrĕk in Russian) 4 or 5 grosh – 8 or 10 paras and 5 paras = ./4 copper kopecks   eggs are 2 grosh a piece at Koutaïs –
supper over about 9 1/2 2 great portions of gômi gave one to Adam kept one for my horse (after tasting my gômi) – the chickens served in a sort of broth very salt but fragrant of kindzi (Coriander) and good   the 3 round cakes gŭālĕe (in Russian crōōglĕe) excellent – a jug of light red agreeable wine of which Ann drank 3 or 4 of her little glasses 2/3 full, and we then filled a quart wine bottle – gave Adam 2 of Ann’s little glasses full and there was still to spare – Ann had her about gill+ of milk – excellent supper – gave the rest of the chickens to the servants – excellent supper – took off pelisse and lay down in my chelat at 10 1/4 – very fine day but rain about 6 and rainy evening –
 WYAS page:  SH:7/ML/E/24/0170
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sciatu · a year ago
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VICOLI IN SICILIA - Cefalù, Mazzara, Ortigia, Geraci Taormina, Castebuono
Forse quando eri bambino è capitato anche a te di avere coscienza di chi eri giocando lungo una strada. A me è successo cosi, lungo la strada che passando davanti alla nostra casa portava dalla curva che ostruiva la vista verso il mare, alla grande piazza dove la chiesa non faceva vedere i grandi monti verso cui la strada saliva. Lungo la strada io giocavo osservandola mutare con le stagioni e con le ore del giorno. Le grandi nubi gravide di pioggia e di sabbia del deserto, i contadini con il gilet di velluto e la coppola in testa a cavallo delle loro giumente arabe, le lunghe processioni con la banda musicale che piangeva di dolore, l silenzio irreale dei funerali, le moto chiassose come una festa, i venditori ambulanti con il loro canto monotone ed uguale, le macchine, gli animali che passavano indifferenti a noi umani, il passeggio delle ragazze seguite dai chiassosi ragazzi, l’odore del vino nuovo che ribolliva nelle botti, il sentore acre delle olive spremute, la carezza del profumo dei gelsomini nelle notti d’agosto, di tutto questo inconsapevolmente vivevo felice. Di una felicità primordiale e pura. Poi tutto cambiò, lasciai la strada. Allora d’improvviso fu il silenzio grande quanto un deserto, fatto di rumori che non capivo, profumi che non sentivo. Conobbi il bruciore dell’ansia, l’incertezza delle parole, il silenzio delle stanze, lenzuola fredde, attese inutili, giorni come le notti senza colori e sapori.
Poi sentii la Voce.
Non era la Voce di un Dio o di un diavolo, né quella delle cose o dei fantasma, non era la voce della nostalgia o della malinconia che d’amaro ricopre l’anima. Era la mia voce da bambino che dentro me parlava, diceva e raccontava. Quando l’ascoltavo ero ancora nella mia strada, nell’agrumeto dove i fiori sembravano stelle o nell’opulenza della vigna, lungo il torrente a cercare i granchi sotto i sassi levigati, nel frusciate delle felci sugli altopiani del bosco, nell’odore del sangue degli animali uccisi, nei tuoni che scuotevano il bosco, nel vagliare ritmico del grano, nel fuoco che urlava nel forno a legna, nel gocciolare dei tetti dopo la pioggia, nell’ urlare disperato dei vivi che piangevano i morti. E la voce diceva che io ero tutto questo, che potevo visitare ogni angolo del mondo, ma io restavo tutto questo, perché ne ero sua parte. Sono, sua atomica parte.
E la Voce mi parla sempre, racconta, canta, recita, è la cornice di ogni mia emozione, è le ali dei miei amori o dei miei sogni, è la maga che evoca e la madre che prega, ama ed odia e non mi lascia mai. Io, prima, non la capivo e lei mi seguiva sempre come ombra delle mie sensazioni e dove lei iniziava a dire, li il mondo, le persone, le cose, avevano un altro senso, la vita stessa aveva un'altra realtà. Ora io la seguo, ne capisco la forza e la seduzione, ne cerco il suono, scrivo il suo dire e con esso nutro il giorno e la notte, perché questo suo continuo andare di parola in parola è ormai la strada in cui ero cresciuto.
Forse è capitato anche a te di crescere in un luogo dove il mondo e la vita fluivano ora in un senso, ora in un altro e in questo continuo mutate e provarti, hai scoperto il senso di chi eri, hai sentito nascere in te una Voce eguale alla mia. Sarà sicuramente così perché se sei arrivato fino a qui ad ascoltarla, vuol dire che la mia Voce, è la tua.
Maybe when you were a child it happened to you too to be aware of who you were playing along a street. This is how it happened to me, along the road that, passing in front of our house, led from the curve that obstructed the view towards the sea, to the large square where the church did not show the great mountains towards which the road went up. Along the way I used to play watching the street change with the seasons and with the hours of the day. The great clouds pregnant with rain and sand of the desert, the peasants in velvet vests and flat caps riding their Arab mares, the long processions with the musical band crying with pain, the unreal silence of the funerals, the motorbikes noisy like a party, the street vendors with their monotonous and equal song, the cars, the animals that passed indifferent to us humans, the walk of the girls followed by the noisy boys, the smell of new wine bubbling in the barrels, the acrid scent of squeezed olives, the caress of the scent of jasmine in August nights, I unknowingly lived happily of all this. Of a primordial and pure happiness. Then everything changed, I left the road. Then suddenly there was silence as big as a desert, made of noises that I did not understand, scents that I did not hear. I knew the burning of anxiety, the uncertainty of words, the silence of the rooms, cold sheets, useless waiting, days like nights without colors and flavors.
Then I heard the Voice.
It was not the Voice of a God or a devil, nor that of things or ghosts, it was not the voice of nostalgia or melancholy that covers the soul with bitterness. It was my child's voice that spoke, said and told inside me. When I listened to it I was still in my street, in the citrus grove where the flowers looked like stars or in the opulence of the vineyard, along the stream looking for crabs under the smooth stones, in the rustle of the ferns on the woodlands, in the smell of blood of the killed animals, in the thunder that shook the wood, in the rhythmic sifting of the wheat, in the fire that screamed in the wood-burning oven, in the dripping of the roofs after the rain, in the desperate screaming of the living who mourned the dead. And the voice said that I was all of this, that I could visit every corner of the world, but I remained all this, because I was part of it. I am, its atomic part.
And the Voice always speaks to me, tells, sings, recites, it is the frame of all my emotions, it is the wings of my loves or my dreams, it is the sorceress who evokes and the mother who prays, loves and hates and does not leave me. never. Before, I did not understand her and she always followed me as a shadow of my feelings and where she began to say, there the world, people, things, had another meaning, life itself had another reality. Now I follow her, I understand her strength and seduction, I look for her sound, I write her words and with it I nourish the day and the night, because this constant going from word to word is now the street where I grew up .
Perhaps it also happened to you to grow up in a place where the world and life flowed now in one direction, now in another and in this continuous change and try yourself, you discovered the meaning of who you were, you felt a Voice being born in you same as mine. It will surely be like this because if you have come this far to listen to it, it means that my Voice is yours.
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ofdevotiions · 3 months ago
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( dev patel, cismale, he/him, 32) ** ♔ announcing ARNAV GHAZI, THE PRINCE OF THE GHAZI EMPIRE ! in a recent portrait they seem to resemble DEV PATEL. it is a miracle that HE survived the last five years and for that reason, they are AGAINST the kingdoms working together. reflecting on them now, they remind me of SEARCHING FOR ANSWERS THAT AREN’T THERE, DARK CIRCLES UNDER TIRED EYES, AND WISHING IT WERE YOU INSTEAD. (hay, she/her, 23, est).
oh boy if you got this far, congrats. i saved this bio for last bc it’s...rough. anyway it’s hay again !
full name: arnev ghazi
nickname: nev
birthday: august 2nd ; 
languages: urdu, persian, hindavi, english, arabic, french, italian, greek, hebrew
family: the emperor (father), the empress (mother), revati ghazi (sister, deceased), saira ghazi (sister), prince __ ghazi (brother), andalah ghazi (sister), surjan ghazi (brother, deceased)
status: unwed
things were normal once. arnev was the first of many ghazis born, each with a head of beautiful dark hair. the emperor and empress couldn’t have been more proud to give birth to a healthy boy- the future emperor of this great empire. 
he was always so carefree, playing pranks on his younger siblings just because he could. his childhood was marked by skipping lessons so he could climb trees or mess up his sisters’ hair. he was so full of energy, bouncing off the walls and running through the gardens. of course, when his mother gave him the look, he settled down and returned to his lessons. 
the ghazi family had always been close. with arnev being the eldest, he always felt like the role model- the example. it didn’t stress him out all that much, but he hoped he was doing a good job. really, he looked to revati as a role model. she was full of grace and would make a better empress than him any day. he had a lot of love for his family and felt an overwhelming sense of pride for each and every one of them. 
then it all changed (when the fire nation attacked) 
the plague settled it’s claws into the mughal empire from the start. it seemed to rain for days on end and everything was damp and dark. the sickness found its way into the palace, though they had been so..so careful. three of his siblings took ill: revati, saira, and surjan. arnev nearly became sick with worry as he saw the life and soul drain out of their eyes day by day. surjan, his youngest brother was the first one to die. he was so young and his light was snuffed out before arnev could fathom it. next, was his sister revati- his partner in crime. she was so strong, it was strange to see her fall to something like...this. with two siblings gone in the wind, it was only natural for arnev to assume that saira would die, too. he sat by her beside and...waited. his heart was empty and there were no more tears in his body so he just...waited. but by some miracle (or some sick joke), she survived- only to be told that she was the only one. 
after that arnev changed. he became a cynical, cold man. he’s standoffish and doesn’t display emotion very much. he cut himself off from his siblings entirely, too wrapped up in his grief. he believes it’s his fault. it’s all his fault. he should have done more, known more. it should have been him. he’s the eldest- he should be the one to take the fall. 
he fell into a deep depression (and he’s probs still in it). now he has this obsession with medicine and healing- just trying to prevent this from ever happening again. he’s not friendly, he’s not soft, he’s not a good man. at least...not to him. he hates himself. he’s really broken and really just wants to move away from everyone and everything. 
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destielonfire · a year ago
NPSS DMBJ writing update 10-08-2021
So Nanpai Sanshu aka Xu Lei posted an update on 10 August about his writing projects (mostly DMBJ). Here's the link to the post, and using MTL I've summarized the most important points for DMBJ fans below (Chinese speakers, please correct me if I got something wrong):
His current DMBJ story 万山极夜 wànshān jíyè aka Ten Thousand Mountains in the Extreme Night (read Merebear's translation here) will wrap up in about 10 more chapters.
After that, he will take break of undefined length before he starts on his new project, the sequel to wanshan jiye, which is called 王母鬼宴 wángmǔ guǐ yàn. It should pick up where the previous story left off.
During the break, he will still post shorter updates. In the background he will work on editing and preparing 重启 chóngqǐ aka Reboot (read Merebear's translation here) for publication.
Some of the updates he will post during the break will be more of 雨村笔记 yǔcūn bǐjì aka Notes In Rain Village (read Merebear's translation here).
After the publication of Reboot and the completion of yucun biji, he mentions the possibility of revisiting/continuing 沙海 shāhǎi aka Sand Sea (read Merebear's translation here), 藏���花 záng hǎi huā aka Tibetan Sea Flower (read Merebear's translation here) and 花夜前行 无声落幕 huā yè qiánxíng wúshēng luòmù aka Moving Forward Through the Flowery Night; The End Comes Without A Sound (read Merebear's translation here).
Personally, I'm super excited about more yucun biji because that means more domestic iron triangle stories and we can NEVER have enough of those. I'm skeptical that he'll ever get around to finishing zang hai hua or sha hai because that would mean filling a lot of very deep pits, but if there's even 1% chance it might happen, I'll take it...Especially zang hai hua...We NEED more Xiaoge-focused content *sobs*
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hornborisbeaverden · 8 months ago
There once was a time of hope, with a warm southern breeze bringing promise of happiness and prosperity to the county. Migratory birds returned, flowers began to bloom and the peasants worked the soil as they should, straightening their backs proudly after the idleness of winter. Then the warmth came. Old grannies poked around in their gardens yelling at their good-for-nothing husbands, who were gently smiling at their wifes in a forgiving summer bliss. And when the lilacs bloomed and the swallows flew in the calm evenings there was even talk of a marriage in the village. And from the village green came the most joyful music together with loud laughter in the warm night. After midsummer it began to rain. It literally poured down from dark and heavy skies for two weeks in a row. Roads became filled with a slushy mud and the fields became even slushier. Golden fields of wheat and rye, promising a full belly, began to rot. The smell of rotting hay was heavy in the whole county. Old granny watched her granddaughters frisky newborn and feared what should come, because she knew. Then came autumn, cold and wet. Peasants slaughtered what cattle they could, the harvest was terribly poor. Days became shorter and the nights brought howling winds from the north. Old granny got stuck in a bog for a whole night while searching for cranberries. Then she caught a cold. Nights grew longer and the snow came. Grandpa scraped the bottom of the barrel, taking the last herrings with him, for the fishing had been bad. He feverishly waded through the muddy snow towards his granddaughters homestead to offer the hungry family his and old granny’s last filling meal. The snow fell and the wind howled for the starving family, betrayed by the promises of summer. Young mother Ingrid hugged her unnaturally skinny baby and sang her a lullaby. The child fell into a nervous sleep and the hungry mother suffocated her with tears in her eyes. The horrifying deed broke her. The starving husband, August, had retreated into the barn. Ingrid were the stronger of the two. His belly had been empty for a long time and when he heard his wife cry aloud he panicked. A rope hung from the roof. And the snow fell, the wind was howling. Lamenting for no one to hear.
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dj--owlixx · 7 months ago
An Innocent Smile
Word Count: 1870
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It was a dry August, not a drop of rain the entire month. A fourteen-year-old girl was at the fair, currently running off from her parents and their occasional farmhand. She wanted to have fun and be away from her parents, though they wouldn’t willingly allow that. While running off toward the animal section, she was approached by four boys.
“What’s a pretty thing like yourself doing without yer daddy?” A yellow-eyed blond asked.
“Hey man, that’s not something you just say. It doesn’t sound very manly.” The red-haired one replied.
The black-haired boy butted in, “Well, her daddy might not like it if she got such a pretty dress dirty.”
Before any of them could say anything else, an explosion rang out from somewhere behind the girl. The sudden noise frightened her, causing her to cling onto the red-eyed boy in front of her, his arm instinctively coming to wrap around her so they wouldn’t fall. The yellow-eyed and black-haired boys complained about the red-eyed boy “getting the girl” when he had said nothing. While they complained, the redhead smiled softly and explained how they had been setting explosives off all day.
Across the fair, the girl’s parents yelled at the farmhand to find her and bring her back. He tried reasoning with them, but they wouldn’t listen. So, he ran a hand through his hair and went off in the direction he thought he caught a glimpse of her going. It wasn’t hard to miss a short girl with long, sky blue hair. It was actually rather easy, he just hadn’t mentioned anything when he saw the blue blur hurry off after getting to the Ferris wheel.
“Aizawa sensei?” The redhead stared at his teacher, “What are you doing here?”
“I’m retrieving Owlixx.”
“No!” The girl, Owlixx, tried to run off after hearing Aizawa. She was too slow, however, as he had already grabbed the back of her dress and picked her up. “No!”
“I know you don’t want to, but you have to.”
“But…why are you taking her?”
“I occasionally work for her parents, Sero. I’ll see you four in class.”
Sero and his friends watched questioningly as their teacher carried the girl into the crowd. Owlixx struggled in Aizawa’s grip, she really didn’t want to go back, but she knew she’d have to eventually. He knew it too, it’s why he still worked for her parents even after becoming a teacher. She would follow him like a puppy whenever she could, though through the years that time grew less.
“You were buying a lemonade, you dropped the lemonade when the explosion went off.”
“My lemonade.” Owlixx sadly said when they reached her parents.
“Where were you?!” Her mother yelled.
“I-I was getting a lemonade, b-but I dropped it.”
“We were going to get lemonade together!”
“I didn’t k-knooow.”
A few days later, Aizawa was teaching at the high school in town. Before class started Sero, Kaminari the yellow-eyed blond, Kirishima the redhead, and Bakugou the red-eyed boy questioned their teacher about the day at the fair. Well, Sero, Kaminari, and Kirishima questioned him and Bakugou just got dragged along. In the middle of science, Aizawa’s phone began to ring, so he excused himself to answer and put Iida, the class president, in charge.
“Hello?” He answered in the hallway.
“A-Aizawaaaa.” Owlixx’s voice came through the phone, she was crying.
“What’s wrong?”
“The-the barn is on fire!”
“Did you-”
“I call-called the fire..fire people.”
“Good, where are your parents?”
“They’re in-inside the baaarn!”
“Shit…” he whispered.
“I-I don’t want to be alone. This is scary…”
“Right. I’ll be there soon.”
As fast as he could, Aizawa informed Yagi of the situation before he left for the farm. He hadn’t done this before, but he couldn’t let Owlixx be alone. She was just a girl, never experiencing something such as a fire or loss. Though that wasn’t what worried him, he was worried the fire would spread to the house, the grass was so dry. The smoke could be seen from the distance, the fire from the driveway. It was huge, fueled by dry wood and all the hay kept inside. The firefighters were already there, trying to contain the fire. Aizawa hurried inside, accompanied by a police officer. He listened to what the officer was telling him, giving a few responses when needed.
“Can I bring the girl with me? She has nobody else.”
“Well, this is the first time I’m handling something like this, so…I suppose, how should I contact you and the girl?”
“I work at the high school, Aizawa Shouta, the principal should tell you where my class is.”
“Right,” the officer wrote in his notepad, “alright, you can take the girl and we’ll come to find you with any updates.”
“Yes, officer.”
Up the stairs, Aizawa entered Owlixx’s room, where she sat in a corner away from the windows. She was hugging her knees as another officer tried to comfort her. Owlixx’s white dress was torn at the bottom, which he could only assume was from running to get the phone and call.
“Owlixx, they’re letting me bring you back to the school.”
“C’mon,” Aizawa helped Owlixx up, “let’s go.”
“Can..can I bring these?” she grabbed a deck of playing cards.
“Sure, now come on.”
The drive to the school was quiet, just the sound of blowing wind from the windows. Owlixx had her head partially out the window, her sadness gone with the wind. Glad she was distracting herself already, Aizawa smiled, now set on thinking what to do with her and his students. Owlixx was two years younger than his students, he hoped that it wouldn’t matter and that they’d get along, though some of his students may not be so, say, welcoming. Suddenly, she was staring at him.
“Do you think the sun sets in paradise?”
“Well, I think it depends on the paradise.”
Owlixx just smiled, a sweet and innocent smile, before returning to look back out the window. They weren’t far from the high school now, just a few more minutes of driving. Aizawa couldn’t tell what was in Owlixx’s mind, or why she asked such a strange question. He was curious, but he couldn’t just ask or force it from her. Yes, he was sure she’d tell him in her own time.
“C’mon, inside.”
Aizawa held the door open for Owlixx as she happily walked in, him following behind her. The class stared at Owlixx, causing her to retreat and hide behind their teacher. Yagi and Aizawa shared a silent conversation before Owlixx was presented to the class.
“This is Owlixx, I’m going to be watching her for a while, which means she’ll be here in class.” Aizawa explained, “I take it you’re all working on the assignment, so I won’t interrupt. When you’re finished, we’ll head outside for an activity I set up for the lesson.”
While the class continued working, occasionally looking up at Owlixx, Yagi set up a desk near Aizawa’s for Owlixx to sit at. She didn’t like being in front of the class, but she could deal with it for a little while. Aizawa checked over the notes Yagi left about the class as Owlixx tried, and failed, to build a house of cards. Students tried not to laugh at the sound of falling cards and the small “shoots” and “dang its”, which they were failing in the silence of the room. Some time later, after the assignment was finished, Aizawa took them outside as he promised.
“Don’t get your dress dirty,” he mumbled to Owlixx.
“I won’t!”
After saying that, Owlixx ran and quickly sat in the dirt, doing exactly what she said she wouldn’t. Aizawa just shook his head before telling his students what to do. A pink-haired girl and a purple-haired girl made their way over to Owlixx, crouching down to talk to her.
“Hey, our friends told us about meeting you.” The pink-haired girl happily said.
“They did?”
“Yea! They said how you clung to Bakugou for protection against the scary dynamite.” She smiled, “Oh! I’m Mina by the way.”
“And I’m Jirou,” the other added, “we tease Bakugou about it, he gets all red, might be anger might be embarrassment-”
“Might be a crush!”
“Oh, ah, hi! He hadn’t said anything, so, maybe the embarrassment?” Owlixx mumbled.
“So, why does Aizawa sensei have to watch you?” Mina questioned.
“Oh- well the barn caught fire and my parents were inside.”
“Oh no, I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay, I think they’re alright, maybe in the hospital.”
“Hey! Do your work.” Aizawa shouted from where he stood.
“Aw, well, we’ll be here.”
The two girls hurried off, leaving Owlixx to play with a stick and dirt. She didn’t notice when Aizawa was called inside, or when he came back out. She only heard him call her over where he stood with the one police officer from earlier. They took her inside, where she was told that her parents were killed in the barn fire.
“So when can I see them?”
“No, Owlixx, you can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because they’re gone, they’re no longer with us.”
After it sunk in, Owlixx broke down, hugging Aizawa for comfort. She hugged him until she felt calm enough to go outside again, where she sat hugging her knees beside where he stood. Bakugou finished with what he was assigned to do, noticed Owlixx looking sad, and went to sit beside her.
“Hey, you okay?” He asked.
“No, I’m sad.”
“Why’s that?”
“Something sad happened.”
“I’m sorry…do you, maybe, want a hug or something?”
A few hours later, Aizawa got a bus and took his class to the farm, his reasoning was that they had to catch the animals that escaped the barn. The fire was out and detectives were looking for the cause. They came to Owlixx, as she was the only witness, and brought her away from the group.
“I know you’re going through a lot, but we need to ask you some questions, okay?”
“Okay.” Owlixx nodded.
“Alright, when did the fire start?”
“The sun was resting on that tree branch over there.”
“That doesn’t tell us much, but okay. Where were you when it started?”
“I was going back to the house because mommy was yelling at me to get her some wine because she didn’t want to come down and get it herself.”
“Okay, wait, come down?” The detective looked up from his notepad.
“Yes, she was up in the hayloft with daddy.”
“Then, who let the animals out?”
“Well, I was brushing them and then daddy started yelling at me to light a candle.”
“You lit a candle.”
“Yes,” Owlixx nodded, “daddy wanted it lit and daddy gets mean when I don’t listen.”
“Alright. Well, I think we’re done here, you can go back now.”
Owlixx stared at what was left of the barn as the sun set, smiling at it. Aizawa walked over to her as his students got the final cow into a trailer a kind neighbor brought over. He stood beside her, staring at the barn.
“I think the sun sets in paradise, Aizawa.”
“Yea. It has to sometimes.”
“I’m glad.”
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whatdoesshedotothem · a year ago
Sunday 18 August 1839
10 ¾
fine morning F60 ¼° at 4 ¼ am barley oats peas etc. niceish open country about Sollenbrun [Sollebrunn]  – good small as usual beds A- poorlish – paid 4/12 rigs = 2.40.0. Banco – enough for our boiled milk and 6 eggs and butter and the little bit of brown bread ate (the tea and sugar our own) – a few houses scattered about near the Station and afterwards – Bäreberg a little hamlet 1 ¾ m. at 6 ¾ = 1 mile per hour – still fine but clouds lowering – bare wide-extended sterile plain country heather moor with patches of corn to the little scattered village of Bäreberg neat little whitewashed church a little before coming to the station – could not sleep there I think – the people going to church – all the men by themselves and all the women ditto in little companies – very neatly and well clothed – 25 minutes here (at B-) we had come faster than William expected – the horses not arrived – off at 9 21/.. – A- and I had breakfasted (had a little of Mrs. Todd cold rice pudding at 8 ½) – wrote out yesterday afternoon after leaving B- at 9 21/.. then slept a little then wrote thus far till now 10 50/.. and we just a fir forest – Scotch and spruce but much Scotch – a relief after the poor uninteresting country this morning – we had a little at starting but not [?] – the clouds threaten more
off at 5 5/..
2 four wheeled and 2 wheel carriages besides our own off before 5
2 forest for 10 minutes
August Sunday 18 rain – common juniper cranberries and bilberries and heather grow everywhere in the forests and on the commons – at 2 little bit of forest – at 12 20/.. Lidköping on the Wenner [Vänern] lake – nice little wooden town with large grande Place, in the style of Wennersberg but not so large? – nice view of the lake as we cross the grande Place green with grass – then a wood bridge over good river then lesser square and goodish street to the gate (common square posts) out of the town – had entered by another such gate – nice neat little town – neat good (stone?) whitewashed church the people well dressed – some gentlemen walking about – fine broad expanse of lake, but its boundaries as far as we can see sparingly wooded in front of us – better behind us – and no where bold – hill range gently sloping to the waters edge in front (left) oats green and rye in stook, close together – better farming or better soil or but just about the town than since close to Götheborg [Gothenburg] – the lake calm but looks muddyish hereabouts as if shallow and lying on sand – our road now at 12 40/.. (10 minutes from the town) very sandy (red sandy) – and enter a little forest Scotch fir we had also a little bit before entering the town – at 1 5/.. out of the fir forest and again upon the lake and cross another little stream – here Epilobium (Contamine) a weed among the oats as in fact we have seen it before in Sweden – now birch wood and firs (forest) again and sandy but very fair road – the roads all along very fair – A- and I had Deventer gingerbread and enjoyed it till 1 ½ then emerge again up the fine sea-like lake – but its scenery must be tame – the day finer now – [fresher] drier air over this juniper common a long reach of the lake and Lidköping just distinguishable – Cållängen [Kållängen] at 2 7/.. good station – 2 or 3 carriages – 2 ladies?
 August Sunday 18 getting some boiled milk? in soup plates – all looked well – a house? and 2 or 3 cottages and large farm buildings close to the station house – could sleep there very well – but nothing (said William) to be had but bread and cheese – the horses not arrived – had to wait till off again at 2 43/.. – at 2 50/.. pass thro’ picturesque little village – neat good stone built church – this and another larger church and village in sight at Cållängen [Kållängen] – the large church perhaps an English ¼ or ½ mile distant – several [?] cottages scattered about here , in little groups – the clouds still very threatening but a little sun now at 3pm – ripe oats uncut and lime set up in little sheaves – much cattle red and horses pasting on the common more cleared and better pasture than usual – the corn etc. in fenced off patches – the cattle generally a reddish fawn-colour – little and slim but good – went into the cowhouse and stable at C- horses fed out of deep troughs – no racks – eat their hay out of troughs at the door of the station – cow has nor racks nor anything – must surely feed out of moveable tubs – floors boarded – horses part only by a double rail but top tail as high as the horses – cows each stale at 3 8/.. bit of fir forest chiefly Scotch and then moor heathy and sweet gale etc. only for one cow parted by a few boards the height of the cows’ head at her head and sloping down to 1/3 of that at the thick boards tail – let into one another no other visible support at the bottom end – pigs kept warm in winter – the styes opening into boarded huts or as it were vestibules! at 3 1/3 on the heathery sweet gate, juniper, bilberry moor Kinnekulle (pronounced Chinnahcullah)fine – roundish long balked wood hill full in view about a mile off (right) – there may be a fine view of the lake
August 18 and as they of several towns  but what else can there be? sheep here – the cottages hereabouts very small and low, mere wood huts – the [strong] thatch covered with peaty sods – very poor and picturesque – our road still very sandy –
Kinnekulle reminds me of mowcop [Mow cop] near Lawton but is not near so fine –
Enebacken  at 4 5/.. neat good wood house and a cottage or 2 the village at a little distance – prettyish on starting from here – could sleep here well I should think – still sandy road – Kinnekulla the summit of a picturesque line of hill – looks well and nearer  from the top of the rising ground just beyond our Enebacken station – and soon enter young forest chiefly Scotch again – pretty stage from Enebacken – forest and pretty with big granite boulders moor young fir wood – at 5 ¾ water (left) and en face a little [reach] of the lake – nice drive all the way from Lidköping, but pretty from E- several small hamlets and villages scattered all along – at 5 10/.. long, straggling, unpainted picturesque wooden (tiled, strong thatched or shingled) village of Bjorsätter [Björsäters] good whitewashed brick or stone church – some better larger red houses at the station (in the village) at 5 55/.. – might perhaps sleep here à la rigueur? little 2 story houses door and 5 windows to the street – a tall maypole just before us lower down the street – off again at 6 5/.. nice foresty pretty enough drive till 7 8/.. fine sunset over the lake and cross two good wooden bridges into the very neat nice little town of Mariestadt beautifully situated – on a little bay of the lake – very nice good little right angle streeted town – the western horizon quite red – [gilding pin] a clay of the handsome looking whitewashed church and topping the tops of the fir forest on the east side the lake (in front of us) with a sight autumnal brown – singular effect – at some distance ½ the height of the trees [?] – this colours the gradually wore itself out as we neared and forest – enter it at 7 20/.. – chiefly Scotch fir – arrived at Hasslerör at 8 – 2 rooms – comfortable
August Sunday 18 Boiled milk and 4 boiled eggs and butter – had our own bread and preserved lemon and Tods’ rice cake – good supper – and over at 8 50/.. – then had Grotza and long motion Reading handbook on Sweden – fine day – F64 ¼° at 9 ½ pm
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overblog854 · 10 months ago
Notch Raised By The People Rar
Notch - Live - 2004 Notch - Raised By The People 2007 Notch - Ya Tu Sabes!(The Beginning)aka-47 Notty - El Komplot The Mixtape 2007 (Ak-47) Notty Play - Un juego de malcriado Nostra Presenta - Los Intocables Noztra - Conteo Regresivo (Before Ya' Ain't Ready)The Mixtape. Explore releases from Notch at Discogs. Shop for Vinyl, CDs and more from Notch at the Discogs Marketplace.
06.Notch - Layaway Love 07.Notch - Rosalinda 08.Notch - Traemelo 09.Notch - Tocame 10.Notch - Mas De Ti 11.Notch - Ella Se Fue 12.Notch - Castigo 13.Notch - No Problema 14.Notch - Jah Mexi Cali 15.Notch - Mano & Mano 16.Notch Ft Baby Ranks & Jabba - Verme 17.Notch Ft Voltio - Chevere (Oficial Rmx) 18.Notch - Bailar Reggae 19.Notch - Bun Out Bad. Listen free to Notch – Raised By The People (Intro / Hay Que Bueno, Dale Pa'Tra (Back It Up) and more). 20 tracks (66:51). Discover more music, concerts, videos, and pictures with the largest catalogue online at Last.fm.
Notch Raised By The People Rar
Rapid rise of Mount Pinatubo's crater lake and recent geological assessments of the crater's lowest point, the Maraunot Notch, raised concern about a breakout lahar down the northwestern slope of the volcano. Three factors indicated a serious hazard. First, the lake rose about 50 m from May 98-August 2001 and was expected to overtop the Maraunot Notch within the last trimester 2001.
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Evaluation, Proposed Solution and Current Status of the Crater Lake Breakout Problem, Mount Pinatubo, Philippines
Rapid rise of Mount Pinatubo's crater lake and recent geological assessments of the crater's lowest point, the Maraunot Notch, raised concern about a breakout lahar down the northwestern slope of the volcano. Three factors indicated a serious hazard. First, the lake rose about 50 m from May 98-August 2001 and was expected to overtop the Maraunot Notch within the last trimester 2001. Overtopping might well have occurred at the height of a strong typhoon or under heavy monsoonal rainstorms. Second, the uppermost 10-20 m of 'dam' was erodible ash and poorly indurated coarse breccia, susceptible to failure by overtopping and erosion as at many landslide and other natural dams. Third, the volumes of lake discharge corresponding to 10 and 20 m of erosion would have been 28 and 55 million m3; peak discharges at a breach could have been as high as 3,200 m3/sec to 11,000 m3/sec, respectively. These discharges would have eroded 1991 pyroclastic and lahar material on the volcano's slopes, increased the flow volume by 3-6x, and entered the Bucao River as a large-magnitude lahar. The Municipality of Botolan (pop. ca. 40,000) lies on the delta of the Bucao River valley some 40 km downriver from the notch, and could have been at great risk. Given this potential risk, the Philippine Institute of Volcanology and Seismology (PHIVOLCS) in early August 2001 advocated three actions. (1) An intentional breaching of the Maraunot Notch by the construction of a spillway or canal, by the Department of Public Works and Highways (DPWH). Early breaching would limit further rise of the lake and thus reduce the magnitude of potential flood. Also, breaching would be scheduled during good weather to eliminate the danger of overtopping at an unknown time and/or under typhoon/rainstorm conditions. (2) An information campaign in Botolan in order to educate and prepare residents for breaching. (3) Evacuation of people at risk, one day before the scheduled breaching. A spillway was excavated by as many as 70 men with picks and shovels, and the specter of a wholly uncontrolled breach through the most erodible debris was averted. Early flow through the spillway was gentle and evacuees quickly returned home. However, 10-15 m of poorly indurated breccia still remains, lake level is still rising slowly, and we are watching to see whether outflow after heavy rains will armor the spillway or catastrophically erode the remaining dam. Insufficient communication between scientists and engineers led DPWH to design for less scouring than expected by PHIVOLCS, and politics and liability concerns at several levels halted digging before the trench could be deepened and outflow increased. Perhaps this is just as well. An inherent conflict arose between short- and long-term risk mitigation. Short-term risk was minimized; long-term risk was reduced but remains a concern. Complete breaching of the dam and thus elimination of long-term risk would have sharply increased short-term risk to Botolan. *Quick Response Team Members: Mabel Abigania, Rene Arante, Onie Arboleda, Maricar Arpa, Mariton Bornas, Edwin dela Cruz, Jojo Cordon, Toti Corpuz, Art Daag, Elmer Gabinete, Del Garcia, Lito Gelido, Lito de Guzman, Sheila Insauriga, Dindo Javier, Rudy Lacson, Bong Luis, Rey Lumbang, Danny Martinez, Mylene Martinez-Villegas, Chris Newhall, Jed Paladio-Melosantos, Mel Pagtalunan, Myla Panol, Jack Puertollano, Raymundo Punongbayan, Gina Quiambao, Andoy Ramos, July Sabit, Noli Sexon, Jimmy Sincioco, Opet Villacorte.
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Pub Date:
December 2001
Notch Raised By The People Rarest
Notch Raised By The People Rare Earth
1815 Erosion and sedimentation;
1821 Floods;
6309 Decision making under uncertainty;
8499 General or miscellaneous
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m-ushroomtale · a year ago
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Three-Body Problem is the first chance for English-speaking readers to experience this multiple award winning phenomenon from China’s most beloved science fiction author, Liu Cixin.
Set against the backdrop of China’s Cultural Revolution, a secret military project sends signals into space to establish contact with aliens. An alien civilization on the brink of destruction captures the signal and plans to invade Earth. Meanwhile, on Earth, different camps start forming, planning to either welcome the superior beings and help them take over a world seen as corrupt, or to fight against the invasion. The result is a science fiction masterpiece of enormous scope and vision.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
The Madness Years
China, 1967
The Red Union had been attacking the headquarters of the April Twenty-eighth Brigade for two days. Their red flags fluttered restlessly around the brigade building like flames yearning for firewood.
The Red Union commander was anxious, though not because of the defenders he faced. The more than two hundred Red Guards of the April Twenty-eighth Brigade were mere greenhorns compared with the veteran Red Guards of the Red Union, which was formed at the start of the Great Proletarian Cultural Revolution in early 1966. The Red Union had been tempered by the tumultuous experience of revolutionary tours around the country and seeing Chairman Mao in the great rallies in Tiananmen Square.
But the commander was afraid of the dozen or so iron stoves inside the building, filled with explosives and connected to each other by electric detonators. He couldn’t see them, but he could feel their presence like iron sensing the pull of a nearby magnet. If a defender flipped the switch, revolutionaries and counter-revolutionaries alike would all die in one giant ball of fire.
And the young Red Guards of the April Twenty-eighth Brigade were indeed capable of such madness. Compared with the weathered men and women of the first generation of Red Guards, the new rebels were a pack of wolves on hot coals, crazier than crazy.
The slender figure of a beautiful young girl emerged at the top of the building, waving the giant red banner of the April Twenty-eighth Brigade. Her appearance was greeted immediately by a cacophony of gunshots. The weapons attacking her were a diverse mix: antiques such as American carbines, Czech-style machine guns, Japanese Type-38 rifles; newer weapons such as standard-issue People’s Liberation Army rifles and submachine guns, stolen from the PLA after the publication of the “August Editorial”1; and even a few Chinese dadao swords and spears. Together, they formed a condensed version of modern history.
Numerous members of the April Twenty-eighth Brigade had engaged in similar displays before. They’d stand on top of the building, wave a flag, shout slogans through megaphones, and scatter flyers at the attackers below. Every time, the courageous man or woman had been able to retreat safely from the hailstorm of bullets and earn glory for their valor.
The new girl clearly thought she’d be just as lucky. She waved the battle banner as though brandishing her burning youth, trusting that the enemy would be burnt to ashes in the revolutionary flames, imagining that an ideal world would be born tomorrow from the ardor and zeal coursing through her blood.… She was intoxicated by her brilliant, crimson dream until a bullet pierced her chest.
Her fifteen-year-old body was so soft that the bullet hardly slowed down as it passed through it and whistled in the air behind her. The young Red Guard tumbled down along with her flag, her light form descending even more slowly than the piece of red fabric, like a little bird unwilling to leave the sky.
The Red Union warriors shouted in joy. A few rushed to the foot of the building, tore away the battle banner of the April Twenty-eighth Brigade, and seized the slender, lifeless body. They raised their trophy overhead and flaunted it for a while before tossing it toward the top of the metal gate of the compound.
Most of the gate’s metal bars, capped with sharp tips, had been pulled down at the beginning of the factional civil wars to be used as spears, but two still remained. As their sharp tips caught the girl, life seemed to return momentarily to her body.
The Red Guards backed up some distance and began to use the impaled body for target practice. For her, the dense storm of bullets was now no different from a gentle rain, as she could no longer feel anything. From time to time, her vinelike arms jerked across her body softly, as though she were flicking off drops of rain.
And then half of her young head was blown away, and only a single, beautiful eye remained to stare at the blue sky of 1967. There was no pain in that gaze, only solidified devotion and yearning.
And yet, compared to some others, she was fortunate. At least she died in the throes of passionately sacrificing herself for an ideal.
* * *
Battles like this one raged across Beijing like a multitude of CPUs working in parallel, their combined output, the Cultural Revolution. A flood of madness drowned the city and seeped into every nook and cranny.
At the edge of the city, on the exercise grounds of Tsinghua University, a mass “struggle session” attended by thousands had been going on for nearly two hours. This was a public rally intended to humiliate and break down the enemies of the revolution through verbal and physical abuse until they confessed to their crimes before the crowd.
As the revolutionaries had splintered into numerous factions, opposing forces everywhere engaged in complex maneuvers and contests. Within the university, intense conflicts erupted between the Red Guards, the Cultural Revolution Working Group, the Workers’ Propaganda Team, and the Military Propaganda Team. And each faction divided into new rebel groups from time to time, each based on different backgrounds and agendas, leading to even more ruthless fighting.
But for this mass struggle session, the victims were the reactionary bourgeois academic authorities. These were the enemies of every faction, and they had no choice but to endure cruel attacks from every side.
Compared to other “Monsters and Demons,”2 reactionary academic authorities were special: During the earliest struggle sessions, they had been both arrogant and stubborn. That was also the stage in which they had died in the largest numbers. Over a period of forty days, in Beijing alone, more than seventeen hundred victims of struggle sessions were beaten to death. Many others picked an easier path to avoid the madness: Lao She, Wu Han, Jian Bozan, Fu Lei, Zhao Jiuzhang, Yi Qun, Wen Jie, Hai Mo, and other once-respected intellectuals had all chosen to end their lives.3
Those who survived that initial period gradually became numb as the ruthless struggle sessions continued. The protective mental shell helped them avoid total breakdown. They often seemed to be half asleep during the sessions and would only startle awake when someone screamed in their faces to make them mechanically recite their confessions, already repeated countless times.
Then, some of them entered a third stage. The constant, unceasing struggle sessions injected vivid political images into their consciousness like mercury, until their minds, erected upon knowledge and rationality, collapsed under the assault. They began to really believe that they were guilty, to see how they had harmed the great cause of the revolution. They cried, and their repentance was far deeper and more sincere than that of those Monsters and Demons who were not intellectuals.
For the Red Guards, heaping abuse upon victims in those two latter mental stages was utterly boring. Only those Monsters and Demons who were still in the initial stage could give their overstimulated brains the thrill they craved, like the red cape of the matador. But such desirable victims had grown scarce. In Tsinghua there was probably only one left. Because he was so rare, he was reserved for the very end of the struggle session.
Ye Zhetai had survived the Cultural Revolution so far, but he remained in the first mental stage. He refused to repent, to kill himself, or to become numb. When this physics professor walked onto the stage in front of the crowd, his expression clearly said: Let the cross I bear be even heavier.
The Red Guards did indeed have him carry a burden, but it wasn’t a cross. Other victims wore tall hats made from bamboo frames, but his was welded from thick steel bars. And the plaque he wore around his neck wasn’t wooden, like the others, but an iron door taken from a laboratory oven. His name was written on the door in striking black characters, and two red diagonals were drawn across them in a large X.
Twice the number of Red Guards used for other victims escorted Ye onto the stage: two men and four women. The two young men strode with confidence and purpose, the very image of mature Bolshevik youths. They were both fourth-year students4 majoring in theoretical physics, and Ye was their professor. The women, really girls, were much younger, second-year students from the junior high school attached to the university.5 Dressed in military uniforms and equipped with bandoliers, they exuded youthful vigor and surrounded Ye Zhetai like four green flames.
His appearance excited the crowd. The shouting of slogans, which had slackened a bit, now picked up with renewed force and drowned out everything else like a resurgent tide.
After waiting patiently for the noise to subside, one of the male Red Guards turned to the victim. “Ye Zhetai, you are an expert in mechanics. You should see how strong the great unified force you’re resisting is. To remain so stubborn will lead only to your death! Today, we will continue the agenda from the last time. There’s no need to waste words. Answer the following question without your typical deceit: Between the years of 1962 and 1965, did you not decide on your own to add relativity to the intro physics course?”
“Relativity is part of the fundamental theories of physics,” Ye answered. “How can a basic survey course not teach it?”
“You lie!” a female Red Guard by his side shouted. “Einstein is a reactionary academic authority. He would serve any master who dangled money in front of him. He even went to the American Imperialists and helped them build the atom bomb! To develop a revolutionary science, we must overthrow the black banner of capitalism represented by the theory of relativity!”
Ye remained silent. Enduring the pain brought by the heavy iron hat and the iron plaque hanging from his neck, he had no energy to answer questions that were not worth answering. Behind him, one of his students also frowned. The girl who had spoken was the most intelligent of the four female Red Guards, and she was clearly prepared, as she had been seen memorizing the struggle session script before coming onstage.
But against someone like Ye Zhetai, a few slogans like that were insufficient. The Red Guards decided to bring out the new weapon they had prepared against their teacher. One of them waved to someone offstage. Ye’s wife, physics professor Shao Lin, stood up from the crowd’s front row. She walked onto the stage dressed in an ill-fitting green outfit, clearly intended to imitate the military uniform of the Red Guards. Those who knew her remembered that she had often taught class in an elegant qipao, and her current appearance felt forced and awkward.
“Ye Zhetai!” She was clearly unused to such theater, and though she tried to make her voice louder, the effort magnified the tremors in it. “You didn’t think I would stand up and expose you, criticize you? Yes, in the past, I was fooled by you. You covered my eyes with your reactionary view of the world and science! But now I am awake and alert. With the help of the revolutionary youths, I want to stand on the side of the revolution, the side of the people!”
She turned to face the crowd. “Comrades, revolutionary youths, revolutionary faculty and staff, we must clearly understand the reactionary nature of Einstein’s theory of relativity. This is most apparent in general relativity: Its static model of the universe negates the dynamic nature of matter. It is anti-dialectical! It treats the universe as limited, which is absolutely a form of reactionary idealism.…”
As he listened to his wife’s lecture, Ye allowed himself a wry smile. Lin, I fooled you? Indeed, in my heart you’ve always been a mystery. One time, I praised your genius to your father—he’s lucky to have died early and escaped this catastrophe—and he shook his head, telling me that he did not think you would ever achieve much academically. What he said next turned out to be so important to the second half of my life: “Lin Lin is too smart. To work in fundamental theory, one must be stupid.”
In later years, I began to understand his words more and more. Lin, you truly are too smart. Even a few years ago, you could feel the political winds shifting in academia and prepared yourself. For example, when you taught, you changed the names of many physical laws and constants: Ohm’s law you called resistance law, Maxwell’s equations you called electromagnetic equations, Planck’s constant you called the quantum constant.… You explained to your students that all scientific accomplishments resulted from the wisdom of the working masses, and those capitalist academic authorities only stole these fruits and put their names on them.
But even so, you couldn’t be accepted by the revolutionary mainstream. Look at you now: You’re not allowed to wear the red armband of the “revolutionary faculty and staff”; you had to come up here empty-handed, without the status to carry a Little Red Book.… You can’t overcome the fault of being born to a prominent family in pre-revolutionary China and of having such famous scholars as parents.
But you actually have more to confess about Einstein than I do. In the winter of 1922, Einstein visited Shanghai. Because your father spoke fluent German, he was asked to accompany Einstein on his tour. You told me many times that your father went into physics because of Einstein’s encouragement, and you chose physics because of your father’s influence. So, in a way, Einstein can be said to have indirectly been your teacher. And you once felt so proud and lucky to have such a connection.
Later, I found out that your father had told you a white lie. He and Einstein had only one very brief conversation. The morning of November 13, 1922, he accompanied Einstein on a walk along Nanjing Road. Others who went on the walk included Yu Youren, president of Shanghai University, and Cao Gubing, general manager of the newspaper Ta Kung Pao. When they passed a maintenance site in the road bed, Einstein stopped next to a worker who was smashing stones and silently observed this boy with torn clothes and dirty face and hands. He asked your father how much the boy earned each day. After asking the boy, he told Einstein: five cents.
This was the only time he spoke with the great scientist who changed the world. There was no discussion of physics, of relativity, only cold, harsh reality. According to your father, Einstein stood there for a long time after hearing the answer, watching the boy’s mechanical movements, not even bothering to smoke his pipe as the embers went out. After your father recounted this memory to me, he sighed and said, “In China, any idea that dared to take flight would only crash back to the ground. The gravity of reality is too strong.”
“Lower your head!” one of the male Red Guards shouted. This may actually have been a gesture of mercy from his former student. All victims being struggled against were supposed to lower their heads. If Ye did lower his head, the tall, heavy iron hat would fall off, and if he kept his head lowered, there would be no reason to put it back on him. But Ye refused and held his head high, supporting the heavy weight with his thin neck.
“Lower your head, you stubborn reactionary!” One of the girl Red Guards took off her belt and swung it at Ye. The copper belt buckle struck his forehead and left a clear impression that was quickly blurred by oozing blood. He swayed unsteadily for a few moments, then stood straight and firm again.
One of the male Red Guards said, “When you taught quantum mechanics, you also mixed in many reactionary ideas.” Then he nodded at Shao Lin, indicating that she should continue.
Shao was happy to oblige. She had to keep on talking, otherwise her fragile mind, already hanging on only by a thin thread, would collapse completely. “Ye Zhetai, you cannot deny this charge! You have often lectured students on the reactionary Copenhagen interpretation of quantum mechanics.”
“It is, after all, the explanation recognized to be most in line with experimental results.” His tone, so calm and collected, surprised and frightened Shao Lin.
“This explanation posits that external observation leads to the collapse of the quantum wave function. This is another expression of reactionary idealism, and it’s indeed the most brazen expression.”
“Should philosophy guide experiments, or should experiments guide philosophy?” Ye’s sudden counterattack shocked those leading the struggle session. For a moment they did not know what to do.
“Of course it should be the correct philosophy of Marxism that guides scientific experiments!” one of the male Red Guards finally said.
“Then that’s equivalent to saying that the correct philosophy falls out of the sky. This is against the idea that the truth emerges from experience. It’s counter to the principles of how Marxism seeks to understand nature.”
Shao Lin and the two college student Red Guards had no answer for this. Unlike the Red Guards who were still in junior high school, they couldn’t completely ignore logic.
But the four junior high girls had their own revolutionary methods that they believed were invincible. The girl who had hit Ye before took out her belt and whipped Ye again. The other three girls also took off their belts to strike at Ye. With their companion displaying such revolutionary fervor, they had to display even more, or at least the same amount. The two male Red Guards didn’t interfere. If they tried to intervene now, they would be suspected of being insufficiently revolutionary.
“You also taught the big bang theory. This is the most reactionary of all scientific theories.” One of the male Red Guards spoke up, trying to change the subject.
“Maybe in the future this theory will be disproven. But two great cosmological discoveries of this century—Hubble’s law, and observation of the cosmic microwave background–show that the big bang theory is currently the most plausible explanation for the origin of the universe.”
“Lies!” Shao Lin shouted. Then she began a long lecture about the big bang theory, remembering to splice in insightful critiques of the theory’s extremely reactionary nature. But the freshness of the theory attracted the most intelligent of the four girls, who couldn’t help but ask, “Time began with the singularity? So what was there before the singularity?”
“Nothing,” Ye said, the way he would answer a question from any curious young person. He turned to look at the girl kindly. With his injuries and the tall iron hat, the motion was very difficult.
“No … nothing? That’s reactionary! Completely reactionary!” the frightened girl shouted. She turned to Shao Lin, who gladly came to her aid.
“The theory leaves open a place to be filled by God.” Shao nodded at the girl.
The young Red Guard, confused by these new thoughts, finally found her footing. She raised her hand, still holding the belt, and pointed at Ye. “You: you’re trying to say that God exists?”
“I don’t know.”
“I’m saying I don’t know. If by ‘God’ you mean some kind of superconsciousness outside the universe, I don’t know if it exists or not. Science has given no evidence either way.” Actually, in this nightmarish moment, Ye was leaning toward believing that God did not exist.
This extremely reactionary statement caused a commotion in the crowd. Led by one of the Red Guards on stage, another tide of slogan-shouting exploded.
“Down with reactionary academic authority Ye Zhetai!”
“Down with all reactionary academic authorities!”
“Down with all reactionary doctrines!”
Once the slogans died down, the girl shouted, “God does not exist. All religions are tools concocted by the ruling class to paralyze the spirit of the people!”
“That is a very one-sided view,” Ye said calmly.
The young Red Guard, embarrassed and angry, reached the conclusion that, against this dangerous enemy, all talk was useless. She picked up her belt and rushed at Ye, and her three companions followed. Ye was tall, and the four fourteen-year-olds had to swing their belts upward to reach his head, still held high. After a few strikes, the tall iron hat, which had protected him a little, fell off. The continuing barrage of strikes by the metal buckles finally made him fall down.
The young Red Guards, encouraged by their success, became even more devoted to this glorious struggle. They were fighting for faith, for ideals. They were intoxicated by the bright light cast on them by history, proud of their own bravery.…
Ye’s two students had finally had enough. “The chairman instructed us to ‘rely on eloquence rather than violence’!” They rushed over and pulled the four semicrazed girls off Ye.
But it was already too late. The physicist lay quietly on the ground, his eyes still open as blood oozed from his head. The frenzied crowd sank into silence. The only thing that moved was a thin stream of blood. Like a red snake, it slowly meandered across the stage, reached the edge, and dripped onto a chest below. The rhythmic sound made by the blood drops was like the steps of someone walking away.
A cackling laugh broke the silence. The sound came from Shao Lin, whose mind had finally broken. The laughter frightened the attendees, who began to leave the struggle session, first in trickles, and then in a flood. The exercise grounds soon emptied, leaving only one young woman below the stage.
She was Ye Wenjie, Ye Zhetai’s daughter.
As the four girls were taking her father’s life, she had tried to rush onto the stage. But two old university janitors held her down and whispered into her ear that she would lose her own life if she went. The mass struggle session had turned into a scene of madness, and her appearance would only incite more violence. She had screamed and screamed, but she had been drowned out by the frenzied waves of slogans and cheers.
When it was finally quiet again, she was no longer capable of making any sound. She stared at her father’s lifeless body, and the thoughts she could not voice dissolved into her blood, where they would stay with her for the rest of her life. After the crowd dispersed, she remained like a stone statue, her body and limbs in the positions they were in when the two old janitors had held her back.
After a long time, she finally let her arms down, walked slowly onto the stage, sat next to her father’s body, and held one of his already-cold hands, her eyes staring emptily into the distance. When they finally came to carry away the body, she took something from her pocket and put it into her father’s hand: his pipe.
Wenjie quietly left the exercise grounds, empty save for the trash left by the crowd, and headed home. When she reached the foot of the faculty housing apartment building, she heard peals of crazy laughter coming out of the second-floor window of her home. That was the woman she had once called mother.
Wenjie turned around, not caring where her feet would carry her.
Finally, she found herself at the door of Professor Ruan Wen. Throughout the four years of Wenjie’s college life, Professor Ruan had been her advisor and her closest friend. During the two years after that, when Wenjie had been a graduate student in the Astrophysics Department, and through the subsequent chaos of the Cultural Revolution, Professor Ruan remained her closest confidante, other than her father.
Ruan had studied at Cambridge University, and her home had once fascinated Wenjie: refined books, paintings, and records brought back from Europe; a piano; a set of European-style pipes arranged on a delicate wooden stand, some made from Mediterranean briar, some from Turkish meerschaum. Each of them seemed suffused with the wisdom of the man who had once held the bowl in his hand or clamped the stem between his teeth, deep in thought, though Ruan had never mentioned the man’s name. The pipe that had belonged to Wenjie’s father had in fact been a gift from Ruan.
This elegant, warm home had once been a safe harbor for Wenjie when she needed to escape the storms of the larger world, but that was before Ruan’s home had been searched and her possessions seized by the Red Guards. Like Wenjie’s father, Ruan had suffered greatly during the Cultural Revolution. During her struggle sessions, the Red Guards had hung a pair of high heels around her neck and streaked her face with lipstick to show how she had lived the corrupt lifestyle of a capitalist.
Wenjie pushed open the door to Ruan’s home, and she saw that the chaos left by the Red Guards had been cleaned up: The torn oil paintings had been glued back together and rehung on the walls; the toppled piano had been set upright and wiped clean, though it was broken and could no longer be played; the few books left behind had been put back neatly on the shelf.…
Ruan was sitting on the chair before her desk, her eyes closed. Wenjie stood next to Ruan and gently caressed her professor’s forehead, face, and hands—all cold. Wenjie had noticed the empty sleeping pill bottle on the desk as soon as she came in.
She stood there for a while, silent. Then she turned and walked away. She could no longer feel grief. She was now like a Geiger counter that had been subjected to too much radiation, no longer capable of giving any reaction, noiselessly displaying a reading of zero.
But as she was about to leave Ruan’s home, Wenjie turned around for a final look. She noticed that Professor Ruan had put on makeup. She was wearing a light coat of lipstick and a pair of high heels.
Copyright © 2006 by (Liu Cixin)
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pureamericanism · a year ago
In Praise of Johnny Appleseed
by Vachel Lindsay
In the days of President Washington, The glory of the nations, Dust and ashes, Snow and sleet, And hay and oats and wheat, Blew west, Crossed the Appalachians, Found the glades of rotting leaves, the soft deer-pastures, In the forest. Colts jumped the fence, Snorting, ramping, snapping, sniffing, With gastronomic calculations, Crossed the Appalachians, The east walls of our citadel, And turned to gold-horned unicorns, Feasting in the dim, volunteer farms of the forest. Stripedest, kickingest kittens escaped, Caterwauling “Yankee Doodle Dandy,” Renounced their poor relations, Crossed the Appalachians, And turned to tiny tigers In the humorous forest. Chickens escaped From farmyard congregations, Crossed the Appalachians, And turned to amber trumpets On the ramparts of our Hoosiers’ nest and citadel, Millennial heralds Of the foggy mazy forest. Pigs broke loose, scrambled west, Scorned their loathsome stations, Crossed the Appalachians, Turned to roaming, foaming wild boars Of the forest. The smallest, blindest puppies toddled west While their eyes were coming open, And, with misty observations, Crossed the Appalachians, Barked, barked, barked At the glow-worms and the marsh lights and the lightning-bugs, And turned to ravening wolves Of the forest. Crazy parrots and canaries flew west, Drunk on May-time revelations, Crossed the Appalachians, And turned to delirious, flower-dressed fairies Of the lazy forest. Haughtiest swans and peacocks swept west, And, despite soft derivations, Crossed the Appalachians, And turned to blazing warrior souls Of the forest, Singing the ways Of the Ancient of Days.
And the “Old Continentals In their ragged regimentals,” With bard’s imaginations, Crossed the Appalachians. And A boy Blew west, And with prayers and incantations, And with “Yankee Doodle Dandy,” Crossed the Appalachians, And was “young John Chapman,” Then “Johnny Appleseed, Johnny Appleseed,” Chief of the fastnesses, dappled and vast, In a pack on his back, In a deer-hide sack, The beautiful orchards of the past, The ghosts of all the forests and the groves– In that pack on his back, In that talisman sack, To-morrow’s peaches, pears and cherries, To-morrow’s grapes and red raspberries, Seeds and tree-souls, precious things, Feathered with microscopic wings, All the outdoors the child heart knows, And the apple, green, red, and white, Sun of his day and his night– The apple allied to the thorn, Child of the rose. Porches untrod of forest houses All before him, all day long, “Yankee Doodle” his marching song; And the evening breeze Joined his psalms of praise As he sang the ways Of the Ancient of Days.
Leaving behind august Virginia, Proud Massachusetts, and proud Maine, Planting the trees that would march and train On, in his name to the great Pacific, Like Birnam wood to Dunsinane, Johnny Appleseed swept on, Every shackle gone, Loving every sloshy brake, Loving every skunk and snake, Loving every leathery weed, Johnny Appleseed, Johnny Appleseed, Master and ruler of the unicorn-ramping forest, The tiger-mewing forest, The rooster-trumpeting, boar-foaming, wolf-ravening forest, The spirit-haunted, fairy-enchanted forest, Stupendous and endless, Searching its perilous ways In the name of the Ancient of Days.
Hear him asking his friends the eagles To guard each planted seed and seedling. While the late snow blew from bleak Lake Erie, Scourging rock and river and reed, For Jonathan Chapman, Johnny Appleseed, Johnny Appleseed, As though his heart were a wind-blown wheat-sheaf, As though his heart were a new-built nest, As though their heaven house were his breast, In swept the snow-birds singing glory. And I hear his bird heart beat its story, Hear yet how the ghost of the forest shivers, Hear yet the cry of the gray, old orchards, Dim and decaying by the rivers, And the timid wings of the bird-ghosts beating. By the hour of dawn he was proud and stark, Went forth to live on roots and bark, Sleep in the trees, while the years howled by– Calling the catamounts by name, And buffalo bulls no hand could tame, Slaying never a living creature, Joining the birds in every game, With the gorgeous turkey gobblers mocking, With the lean-necked eagles boxing and shouting; Sticking their feathers in his hair,– Turkey feathers, Eagle feathers,– Trading hearts with all beasts and weathers He swept on, winged and wonder-crested, Bare-armed, barefooted, and bare-breasted.
The maples, shedding their spinning seeds, Called to his appleseeds in the ground, Vast chestnut-trees, with their butterfly nations, Called to his seeds without a sound. And the chipmunk turned a “summer-set,” And the foxes danced the Virginia reel; Hawthorne and crab-thorn bent, rain-wet, And dropped their flowers in his night-black hair; And the soft fawns stopped for his perorations; And his black eyes shone through the forest-gleam, And he plunged young hands into new-turned earth, And prayed dear orchard boughs into birth; And he ran with the rabbit and slept with the stream, And he ran with the rabbit and slept with the stream, And he ran with the rabbit and slept with the stream. In the days of President Washington.
(Hear the hoof-beats of deer in the snow. And see, by their track, bleeding footprints we know. See conventions of deer go by; The bucks toss their horns, the fuzzy fawns fly. Faint hoof-beats of fawns long gone From respectable pasture, and park and lawn, And heartbeats of fawns That are coming again When the forest, once more, Is the master of men.)
Long, long after, When settlers put up beam and rafter, They asked of the birds: “Who gave this fruit? Who watched this fence till the seeds took root? Who gave these boughs?” They asked the sky, And there was no reply. But the robin might have said, “To the farthest West he has followed the sun, His life and his empire just begun.” Self-scourged, like a monk, with a throne for wages, Stripped like the iron-souled Hindu sages, Draped like a statue, in strings like a scarecrow, His helmet-hat an old tin pan, But worn in the love of the heart of man, More sane than the helm of Tamerlane, Hairy Ainu, wild man of Borneo, Robinson Crusoe–Johnny Appleseed; And the robin might have said, “Sowing, he goes to the far, new West, With the apple, the sun of his burning breast– The apple allied to the thorn, Child of the rose.”
Washington buried in Virginia, Jackson buried in Tennessee, Young Lincoln, brooding in Illinois, And Johnny Appleseed, priestly and free, Knotted and gnarled, past seventy years, Still planted on in the woods alone. Ohio and young Indiana– These were his wide altar-stone, Where still he burnt out flesh and bone. At last his own trees overtook him, at last his own trees hurried past him. Many cats were tame again, Many ponies tame again, Many pigs were tame again, Many canaries tame again; And the real frontier was his sun-burnt breast. From the fiery core of that apple, the earth, Sprang apple-amaranths divine. Love’s orchards climbed to the heavens of the West, And snowed the earthly sod with flowers. Farm hands from the terraces of the blest Danced on the mists with their ladies fine; And Johnny Appleseed laughed with his dreams, And swam once more the ice-cold streams. And the doves of the spirit swept through the hours, With doom-calls, love-calls, death-calls, dream-calls; And so once more his youth began, Johnny Appleseed.
Then The sun was his turned-up broken barrel, Out of which his juicy apples rolled, Thumping across the gold, An angel in each apple that touched the forest mold, Each red, rich, round, and bouncing moon That touched the forest mold. He saw the fruits unfold, And all our expectations in one wild-flower-written dream, Confusion and death sweetness, and a thicket of crab-thorns, Heart of a hundred midnights, heart of the merciful morns. Heaven’s boughs bent down with their alchemy, Perfumed airs, and thoughts of wonder. And the dew on the grass and his own cold tears Were one in brooding mystery, Though death’s loud thunder came upon him, Though death’s loud thunder struck him down– The boughs and the proud thoughts swept through the thunder, The vista of ten thousand years, flower-lighted and complete. Hear the lazy weeds murmuring, bays and rivers whispering, Listen to the eagles, screaming, calling, “Johnny Appleseed, Johnny Appleseed,” There by the doors of old Fort Wayne.
In the four-poster bed Johnny Appleseed built, Autumn rains were the curtains, autumn leaves were the quilt. He laid him down sweetly, and slept through the night, There by the doors of old Fort Wayne.
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the-deeds-to-shibden · 15 days ago
Tuesday 4 August 1840
[Anne misdated this entry as Tuesday 3 August]
[up at] 7 1/2
[to bed at] 10 3/4
slept well but hot in the night – comfortable wash – took off drawers and waist and caught 22 fleas – rain soon after we arrived last night and rainy night and rainy morning till after 9 then gleams and 2 or 3 short light showers till noon – breakfast over at 9 50/.. – Ann sketched Adam etc. – I till now 12 50/.. wrote from line 17 of last page to here – and wrote out the accounts – paid for the hay of last night and this morning 4 abasses and for the 1 batman more Indian corn ./25 silver – and off from Odjola at 1 25/.. – picturesque scattered village – the houses (little farmsteads) nearish together but irregularly placed, and so hid among the trees, scarcely seen at a little distance – this a good village – 25 mosâcles i.e. inhabited houses (in Russ Dīmoff) a stable cowhouse storehouse any building is a sâcle – but mosâcle is a house inhabited by human beings – sometimes one mosâcle inhabited by 3 brothers and their families – I think one may average each house at 2 families of 2 children each therefore each house 8 souls and 25 x 8 = 200 souls at Odjōlă – the kelossan here a civil good man – the road from here to Koutaïs, a Russian road – good – Drov (Russian) fire wood, and 1 cube sagène = 15 arbaghs (or little cart-loads) and 1/2 arbagh will feed one fire (not a stove) 24 hours therefore 1 sagène of wood = 1 fire (24 hours a day) for 30 days – wood from 3/. to 4/. silver per sagène at Koutaïs – the gallery or balcony where we slept last night not an Ōtach, not good enough for that, – but a bĕ’rē^lĭ – the road good to Odjōlă because mnogo Rabosha (roots turnips, carrots, and parsnips) here that the people sell – and sell wine, too – our road thro’ wood (but completely pruned out of one’s eyes) almost all the way – at 4 23/.. peep down on la belle Rioni and la belle Colchide – at 4 1/2 fine view of the monastery of Ghelati – at 4 38/.. distinguish the narrow Tskaltsitéli (red water tsiltéli red in Georgian) winding at the foot of the wooded hill of Ghelathi, and distinguish the little white monastery of Modzamêta just peeping up above the trees – the wood of the wooded knoll on jet of rock on which it stands – at 4 3/4 fine view over la Colchide (rich, beautiful, fine valley) and of reach of the Rioni, but the high mountains of Akhaltiskh hid in mist – dont see far enough to see Koutaïs – at 4 55/.. see Koutaïs thro’ a break in the hills, and beautiful descent upon the river and soon down at it (at about 5 1/2) still in its own narrowish wooded rich lovely valley (at 2 1/2 versts from Koutaïs) which does not open into la Colchide till it reaches the castle (or cathedral) hill which in fact forms one buttress of the valley at its termination – at 6 10/.. near Koutaïs – left Ann and the rest, and took Adam and rode on before to the bazaar to buy fodder for Merab – bought bundle of grass for 16 paras – home at 6 1/2 or after and find all the party arrived – Domna living in the house but not at home – had to wait a few minutes to get in – the commandant and his wife out – their man swept our rooms – got 1 chair and another with a board over it, and a bench for a table at the joiner’s, and soon made ourselves comfortable   tea about 7 1/2 to 8 1/2 – Rainy morning (vide) fine afternoon and evening – merely a few drops of rain about 2 p.m. but at 9 50/.. Reaumur 19 3/4° and thunder and lightning and heavy rain –
 Anne’s marginal notes:
WYAS pages:  SH:7/ML/E/24/0170      SH:7/ML/E/24/0171
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vikas643 · 23 days ago
10 Things to Do in Goa in Rainy Season
Monsoon in Goa is between the  month of June and August . Goa is the coast of india, which receives a lot rain.
1. Visit Dudhsagar Waterfalls
Dudhsagar waterfalls in Goa is at its potent during Raining in Goa. The cascade originate from River Mandovi and are within a tropical timber which means, to get to the waterfalls, you have to trek through the through forest and railway tracks through the Mahavir Wildlife Sanctuary. But if you can't, don't worry! You can catch a train that passes through the falls, and substantiation nature's might! While you may not be allowed to get too close to the falls, the journey provides a beautiful scenic view of the falls, and that is a sight to behold!
2. Night Clubs and Bar
Tourists generally prefer to visit Goa during the winter and summer vacations for water sports in goa. Therefore, visiting Goa during the monsoon means visiting out of season. So you won't be bothered by crowd everywhere. This means you can have a party bar or club hop in Goa and you don't have to worry about the place filling up.
3. Go Exploring
Would you like to recreate the scene of Alia Bhatt cycling through the city of Goa, Dear Zindagi? Then visiting cycle tour in goa during the monsoon may be the perfect time! The roads are not busy as in the high season and you can explore the beautiful rural area with a rental bike or motorcycle! Don't forget to bring your raincoat unless you want to get wet and enjoy the rain while exploring.
4. Long Walks Along The Beach
Sometimes, simplicity is the key. Even if you can't go trekking or rafting in goa, you can still enjoy the beauty of Goa during monsoons, by visiting the numerous scenic beaches.
5. The Sao Joao Festival
If you thought monsoons were dull and boaring in North goa tour, Think again. It's time to enjoy the famous Sao Joao festival. The entire state, especially North Goa, is adorned with colorful decorations and boats, all looking like a carnival.
6. Visit the FortsLive the dream of exploring Goa's fort, as in the movie "Dill Chahata Hai". The fort looks majestic in summer and winter, but at the beginning of the monsoon the fort has a whole new look. Surrounded by fresh greenery, the sweet smell of the earth after the rain will wash away the dust in the building, making it a place with a good view.
7. Explore Spice GardenHave you ever imagined aromatherapy? I won't look any further! Visiting the Spice Garden is one of the unique things to do in Goa, especially during the monsoon season. The scent of various spices, which is a mixture of the cool breeze after the rain and Petrichor, acts like a natural aromatherapy to you. This is another reason to visit Goa during the monsoon season.
8.  Go on River Cruise
A luxury cruise on the Mandvi River is another relaxing thing to do during the Goa Monsoon. The evening is the perfect time to take a cruise. Casinos, dance, music performances, snacks and other activities during the cruise.The 2-hours cruise is aa spectacular experience when the cruise boat gets illuminated with dazzling lights.
9. Drive up the Ghats
Road trips to Goa's various ghats are an exciting activity in their own right. Goa opens in the most spectacular way to impress you. Make Amboli waterfall trip in Monsoon season.As you drive through dense forests, you cross mystical valleys, thunderous waterfalls, and go past pristine greenery of the ghats.
10. Enjoy Happing Nightlife
When the monsoon arrives, the bar will be empty and it will be easier to secure a seat. You can still enjoy live music played at Calangute or Baga Beach bars. You can sing on karaoke nights, dance to loud music, gamble on the float Casinos in goa, or just enjoy dining.
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hindikaraokeshop · 2 months ago
The Musical Biography Of KK
George Eliot once said, "Our dead are never dead to us until we have forgotten them," those words seem true as millions of hearts mourn the demise of one of India's best playback singers, KK., as he makes his heavenly departure, KK has left us with miraculous music, and in this blog, we will reminisce his epic journey and contribution to the world of music.
Krishna Kumar Kunnath, popularly known as KK, started his journey as a playback singer by singing jingles for advertisement campaigns. However, he made his debut in Bollywood with an A.R Rahman soundtrack. In 1999, he launched his debut album 'Pal,' which became a generational rave. Even today, you will find tracks from the album like "Pal" and "Yaaron" a must play in the school and college farewells. His banter of successful tracks over the years like "Tadap Tadap Ke Is Dil Se" from the movie Hum Dil De Chuke Sanam (1999), the groovy and fun Tamil song "Apadi Podu," "Dola Re Dola" from the movie Devdas (2002), "Kya Mujhe Pyaar Hai" from the romantic drama Woh Lamhe (2006), "Aankhon Mein Teri" from the modern retro flick Om Shanti Om (2007), "Piya Aaye Na" from the romantic musical Aashiqui 2 (2013), and "Mat Aazma Re" from the thriller flick Murder 3 (2013), has established KK as one of the most sought-after artists in the music industry. 
Adding more to this highly acclaimed musical career spanning over 20 years, KK has successfully recorded songs in several Indian regional languages, including Hindi, Tamil, Telugu, Kannada, Malayalam, Marathi, Odia, Bengali, Assamese, and Gujarati.
Born in Delhi on 23 August 1968 in an archetypal Malayali family, he was brought up in New Delhi. Later he graduated from the Kirori Mal College, Delhi University. Hence, one can say that KK was always in the realm of singing. After graduating, KK had a brief stint for months as a marketing executive before chasing his passion for music. However, in the early days, he struggled to create a name for himself in the cut-throat competitive recording industry, resorting to singing at hotels to make ends meet. It was only in 1994 that he finally decided to move to Mumbai. Then, he started singing for marketing jingles, like for Santogen Suiting by UTV. For more than 4 years, KK has sung more than 3,500 jingles across 11 languages. Luckily, he got to make his first break as a playback singer with A. R. Rahman's hit songs "Kalluri Saaley" and "Hello Dr." from Kadir's Kadhal Desam and then "Strawberry Kannae" from AVM Productions' musical film Minsara Kanavu (1997). He also sang a small portion of the song "Chhod Aaye Hum" from Gulzar's Maachis (1996). Later, he made his Bollywood debut with the much-revered tragic ballad "Tadap Tadap Ke Is Dil Se" in the romantic drama Hum Dil De Chuke Sanam (1999), which became the turning point of his career. Since then, KK has never had to look back. 
In 1999, when Sony Music embarked on becoming one of the most successful record labels in India, they were looking for a fresh face to launch. As the universe conspired, KK became that face and launched his solo and debut album 'Pal' with the music composition and arrangement and production by Lesle Lewis, who had already established a niche for music composition and arrangement from his duet label 'Colonial Cousins.' This album won KK the Screen Award for best singer. After eight years, amid several Bollywood and regional collaborations lined up, KK released his second album, 'Humsafar.' Interestingly, eight songs of the album were composed by KK himself, and the title track "Humsafar" is a mix of English and Hindi lyrics. Some of the most acclaimed tracks from this album are "Aasman Ke," "Dekho Na," "Yeh Kahan Mil Gaye Hum," and "Rain Bhai Kaari (Maajhi)." Moreover, KK has also sung an English Rock Ballad, "Cineraria." He has been nominated for several award categories for playback singing and won 6 Filmfare awards, a Filmfare Awards South, and a Screen Award. It is unbelievable that KK had never undergone any formal music training.  
He has also been instrumental in the television circuit. He lent his voice to several television serial songs like Just Mohabbat, Shaka Laka Boom Boom, Kuch Jhuki Si Palkein, Hip Hip Hurray, Kkavyanjali, and Just Dance. In addition to that, KK also has sung a song named "Tanha Chala" for the Pakistani TV show The Ghost, which was aired on Hum TV in 2008. Even after being one of the most famous singers on the film circuit, KK has always kept his personal life away from the glitz and glamour; as he used to say, "a singer must be heard," and the singer doesn't have to be seen. 
He was also the favorite jury and gusset judge for multiple talent hunts and singing shows like Fame Gurukul and Indian Idol Junior. He has also featured in popular music synth shows like MTV Coke Studio, Sony Mix TV Show, and MTV Unplugged. With massive popularity worldwide, KK has thrilled music lovers with his concerts in Goa, Dubai, Chennai, and Hong Kong. Remarkably, KK took his last breath embracing music as he died just hours after concerting in Kolkata. The packed Nazrul Mancha stadium raged with KK's soulful music, marking his last music concert. He complained of feeling unwell soon after his performance on the way back to his hotel, where he suffered cardiac arrest. At 53, with a versatile and insatiable career spanning two decades, KK, "the voice of love and friendship," took to his heavenly abode. The West Bengal government gave him a gun salute.
Ask any 90s kid, and they would talk about the sudden revolution in the Indian music industry. Every music lover would look back upon the time when every other track in the early 2000s cast a spell on the crowd. One can credit this magic to KK as he steadily overwhelmed every heart with his voice. His music defined a generation, and thus, it is time for us to reminisce some of his several iconic tracks.
Yaaron Dosti Badi Hi Haseen Karaoke
Your childhood is indisputably incomplete if you have not heard this song. Be it a group of friends jamming in the college cafeteria or juniors singing in the school farewell, this song from KK's debut album 'Pal' is a time machine itself, and now sadly, it will always make us remember the gem of a singer KK was. So you can sing along to this track for your friends and spread the purity of friendship and love wherever you perform. All you need is a mic and maybe a guitar or karaoke. 
Tu Aashiqui Hai Karaoke 
This track from the movie 'Jhankaar Beats' was one of KK's first songs recorded for a Bollywood movie under the label Sony Music. This romantic track is perfect for singing to your special someone on your first date night. Though the movie did not garner many audiences, this track became sensational and was heard blasting the radios regularly. Surprisingly this is one of those few songs written by Vishal Dadlani from the music composing duo Vishal Shekhar. 
Mera Pehla Pehla Pyar Karaoke
From the movie MP3, this song was as efficacious as other tracks of KK. It captures the innocence of first love, be it the first glance of your crush or the first date; this song is etched to make you fall in love with the idea of love all over again. The mellow voice of KK does the magic!
Alvida Karaoke
When it comes to defining a generation, the album for the movie 'Life In A Metro' pops up in every music lover's mind almost instantly. The album is the perfect amalgamation of creativity and original conceptualization. This track, in particular, brought KK and Pritam as music composers to popularity, and we can not get enough of the rock-solid drums and baseline with the strong vocals of KK. In a candid interview, KK opened up about how he experimented with a vocal range in this track and tried to incline it more towards rock indie, breaking the typical notion of romantic range singing. 
Khuda Jaane Ke Karaoke 
From the movie Bachna Ae Haseeno, this track is famous to date, other than it featuring the then buzzed couple Deepika and Ranbeer. But, it was the ethereal voice of KK and Shilpa Rao. This track is a personal favorite of every couple hands-down, and hence it is perfect for duet karaoke performances, or if you wish to impress a special someone, KK has something was everyone. 
Zara Sa Karaoke
Unexaggeratingly, a Mukesh Bhatt movie, especially one starring Emraan Hashmi, is incomplete without the voice of KK. The much-acclaimed album of the movie 'Jannat' composed by Pritam has this one track which became a rave among the youngsters. As The Hindu rightly titled KK "the voice of love," this song unequivocally makes him the king of the romantic genre in music.
Dil Ibadat Karaoke 
Let us look at it this way. In a Mukesh Bhatt production, Kunal Deshmukh directorial, starring Emraan Hashmi, the album has to be composed by Pritam with the lyrics of Sayeed Quadri. However, the vocals of KK are the final element that makes that album a hit. From the movie 'Tum Mile,' this track is an unequivocal testimony to the above-proven equation. Listen to this song, and we are sure you will fall in love with KK's vocal range. 
Tu Jo Mila Karaoke
From the movie Bajrangi Bhaijaan, this song makes one feel emotions like love and care all too well. It is amusing how a voice crafted for so long in the industry can still sound innocent. This track is delivered by the top duo KK and Pritam with the lyrics of Kausar Munir, sounds like a masterpiece, right? 
Beete Lamhe Karaoke 
Another heart-rendering track right from our favorite duo, KK, and Pritam, this track is ethereally unique, and we can only wonder why songs like these are made no more. Though this is a heartbreaking song, the lyrics are hauntingly beautiful, like memories. It perfectly etches the moments in your life, the ones you may have shared with someone, which meant everything to you at one point but now seem like a long-lost story. And though you wish to forget them, you can not completely forget. This song makes you question, can you unlove someone? 
Abhi Abhi Karaoke
From Mahesh Bhatt's sensual thriller flick 'Jism 2', this song is a beautiful love ballad, and we all know KK's prowess in the genre. With his resonant voice and the strong beats of drums, this song is perfect for a live karaoke session. The best thing about KK's songs is that one can easily sing and put up a decent performance with a bit of practice, even if they are amateur-level singers or simply hobbyists. 
Tu Hi Meri Shab Hai Karaoke 
This list would have been incomplete without this track from the movie 'Gangster.' It is bewildering that Pritam and KK somehow conjured major hits and gave voice to actor Emraan Hashmi in several movies. With the lyrics of Sayeed Quadri, this song is the one you play on loop for quite some time once you hear it; the enthralling voice of KK does the number on you. 
Artists who genuinely define their art and fulfill all senses of the masses don't come in passing; hence it can be said without a shred of uncertainty that KK is and always will be one of the biggest musical legends. His craft is refined and will forever be alive as long as his voice keeps ruling our hearts. You can enjoy his soulful music and try to sing them in your unique voice too. At Hindi Karaoke Shop, you can easily download these and many other iconic karaoke songs of KK in studio standard audio with high-quality scrolling lyric videos at the most budget-friendly prices. You can also mold a particular track as per your musical affliction with our exclusive customization services and much more.Blog Source URL: https://blog.hindikaraokeshop.com/the-musical-biography-of-kk
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ridleykemp · 2 months ago
And as the nail sunk in the cloud...
Sitting out on the porch during the first rainstorm we’ve had after a nearly a month of 95-100 degree highs this spring. It feels good. It feels necessary for some reason. It’s been a rough month. They all seem rough these days, don’t they?
Today I Learned: Marie-Therese, the daughter of Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette, was the (disputed) Queen-Consort of France for 20 minutes in August of 1830. We were watching Sofia Coppola’s Marie Antoinette and I did a little googling to see what became of the kids. Marie-Therese, the eldest child, lived quite an interesting life that was probably a good deal more eventful than her mother’s. Apparently, and it is not impossible that I’m not fully following the bouncing ball here, royalists would periodically try to restore the monarchy and prop up some fellow claiming to be Marie-Therese’s brother (both of her brothers died young) and she would inevitably be involved in some fashion.
Anyway, the thought of someone holding an office for 20 minutes or so is the sort of thing that interests me and I thought y’all might find it interesting as well.
I did get a little joy today from an unexpected source. I saw that Sunderland A.F.C. were promoted from League One in England (which is, inexplicably, the third highest level of English football) and I thought of an old friend who has remained a loyal Black Cats supportor. I shot off an email and he responded almost immediately, which delighted me no end. Weird little connections like that are disproportionately delightful, aren’t they?
We visited my mother for her birthday last weekend. I’m not gong to lie: She looks Old. That’s to be expected as, in point of fact, she is old, but it’s still….I’m proud of her. She’s still learnng things, still changing her mind, and still muddling through trying to do right under the assumption that, if people just do the right thing, then things will work out.
She adores Nicole, which speaks well of the both of them.
You can’t tell by reading, but I just stopped typing for ten minutes thinking about mom. She’s a good egg. A lot of what I like about myself came directly from her.
We are, all things considered, relatively well off. I’m employed, insured, and we can make ends meet even if there isn’t quite so much slack in the rope as there was a few years ago. I can only imagine how bad some people are feeling the rising price of everything right now.
Just like with the people who get the disease, COVID is going to have serious long-term affects on the nation and, specifically, the economy. I don’t have any idea how to fix any of this; when so many of the links in the chain break at the same time, even trained experts struggle to come up with solutions. I can say that diminished buying power plus food supply chain shortages are a recipe for Very Bad Things (side note: Perhaps the biggest problem the Louis XVI faced was inflation brought on by deregulation and poor harvests. Weird how relevant that feels now).
All this and the fact that the pandemic hasn’t been resolved in any meaningful way (unless you find “just declaring it’s over because you’re tired of it” meaningful) makes me very nervous. This doesn’t end well.
I have quite a bit more on my mind, but the rain is nice and I’m no longer in the mood to grip. Tomorrow is the last day of the Premier League season, so I’m getting up early(ish) one last time and really ought to be hitting the hay. Goodnight all, and I hope things are good in your neck of the woods tonight.
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